


Lesser Evils

by mirari1



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Burning Crusade Era, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-09-27
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 129,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirari1/pseuds/mirari1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a human warlock is blackmailed into helping hunt for a missing settlement of Third War refugees, a chance meeting throws the searchers into the midst of a Legion plot. Can new loyalties survive contact with the old?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Crosspost from fanfiction.net.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically a sequel to "Hell for the Company," but I don't think you necessarily need to read that fic to enjoy this one. Most of what's been carried over are characters, and I think the relationships between them should be pretty easy to get from context. A short note on setting: it didn't matter so much before, since most of the action took place outside of Azeroth, but the timing of this is after the opening of the Dark Portal during Burning Crusade, and not too long before Kil'jaeden gets his head stuck in the Sunwell. Hope you enjoy!

She'd expected the fire in the hayloft overhead, but when the iron plowshare beneath her hand burst angrily into flame, Callista was surprised.

She snatched her fingers away and swore, ducking back behind the pile of rusted farm implements as the hot metal smell mingled with the dry smoke already in the air. Green flecked the pupils of her eyes as she flung her magic out like a sensitive web over her surroundings, searching.

Imps – there'd only been one when she'd entered the barn, but evidently the little fiend had managed a summoning circle.

A sharp cackle sounded overhead as the imp capered at the edge of the loft, kicking the ladder over with its cloven-hoofed foot and shrieking with glee as it crashed against the grey wood of the barn wall, showering Callista with splinters and forcing her to flinch out of the path of its fall. It clattered to the ground not far from where she'd been crouched, sending chipped shovels and broken wheelbarrows skittering across the earthen floor.

She hissed a spell and the imp's shriek rose an octave as an iridescent rope of shadow annihilated the planks beneath its hooves and snapped around its mangy-furred chest. It struggled futilely as it plummeted through the smoke and dust-choked air and thudded to the ground, yelling curses in its pidgin demonic dialect. Callista thumbed one of the crystal spheres in the pouch at her side automatically, feeling the runes etched into its surface. So much for that one…

The fireball that blistered the air as it rocketed past her head would've left her neck a sizzling ruin had it struck true, but imps were notoriously lousy shots. Besides, she'd sensed the prickle of demonic magic and ducked.

Unbeknownst to the imp, her felhunter had smelled it, too. Jhormug may have been too clumsy to scale the ladder to the hayloft, but he was plenty massive enough to crash through the barn wall in a hail of splintered wood, sending the remaining demon squealing from cover. It scrabbled across the floor on all fours before righting itself and loosing a bright gout of flame back over its shoulder at the felhunter.

Jhormug never paused in his headlong lunge, fire scattering from his magic-proofed hide like water droplets as he bounded through smoke and falling splinters and twisted his head to clamp his huge jaws around the imp's squirming form. He could've crushed it effortlessly between his teeth, but instead the twin tentacles that rose from his shoulders struck down to latch against the imp's chest, a green glow rising around them as the imp twisted and yelped.

The smoke in the barn was so thick now that Callista's eyes watered and every second breath was a cough. Luckily the hayloft hadn't been full – this was an old barn, used only to store extra farm equipment – or she'd already have been roasted. She pulled the collar of her robe up over her mouth and nose as she squinted through the haze, feeling the heat of the fire smoldering in the loft sear the skin of her face as she hurried to where the first imp had fallen and picked it up by the scruff of its hairy neck. It struggled, but only weakly, and she was careful to avoid the corrosive skeins of shadow that still bound it as she stumbled out the open doors of the barn and into the bright summer sun.

White smoke billowed out after her, and she flung the imp to the ground a prudent distance from the building conflagration, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. Jhormug padded obediently at her heels, dropping the limp form of the imp he carried at her feet and licking blood from the coarse fur beneath his jaw.

She really hated it when people let fiends entrench themselves in their outbuildings that way. Some misguided hope that if they ignored them they might go away, she supposed. If it didn't work for kitchen mice, she had no idea why anyone would assume it would work for the Legion.

Tears still streaming from her eyes, Callista dug two of the rune-etched crystal balls from her pouch and cupped them in her palm. Magic flared poisonous green, tendrils writhing from the twin spheres to twine around the two imps lying prone at her feet. They shrieked and squirmed as their eyes blazed brightly and they seemed to  _dissolve_ , melding into streamers of emerald light that shrank rapidly back into the crystal spheres in Callista's hand. No longer empty, a glowing fog of fel magic filled them, a tiny imp-shaped silhouette just visible at the heart of each one. Callista held one up to the sun and peered inside before pocketing both, satisfied. Two days ago she'd caught the felhound that had been terrorizing some anemic-looking noble's hunting lodge. Not bad, for one foray into Elwynn.

Jhormug suddenly growled low in his throat and swung his eyeless head around to stare up the path to the main house. Muscles bunched beneath his scaled hide, and Callista could feel her minion's consternation at not being allowed to devour the imp translating into a murderous urge to rip apart whoever was coming to join them. That was no good. And besides, it was part of the unspoken contract of these things that she pretend not to be a warlock, anyway.

Jerking hard on their bond, she dismissed the felhunter back to the Nether with a flick of her wrist and a short burst of felfire. Maybe she'd let it eat a bandit or two on the way home.

The roof of the barn behind her collapsed with a crash and a swirl of red sparks, and she flinched. The owner wouldn't be pleased, but if that imp had really cast a summoning circle up there it was probably for the best. Less work than purging it, anyway.

Two figures slowly resolved themselves through the tatters of smoke strewn over the path by the breeze, and she strode forward to meet them. One was portly and red-faced, clad in an abundance of green silks and gold jewelry, and the other was a bent-backed old manservant who eyed Callista warily as they approached.

"Ah, Miss Dunhaven!" the portly man said once they'd reached a civilized distance, drawing an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket to mop his glistening forehead. His brows rose as his gaze fell on the smoking charcoal heap that had once been the barn, and Callista wrinkled her nose in something like apology. "I trust those are the fires of success my barn is currently smoldering in?"

"The smoke of victory stings our eyes even now, Lord Duncan," she said, not quite managing to keep the sarcasm from her tone as she rubbed at the tears that still insisted on streaming down her cheeks. "Where those demons are going, they won't be coming back."

"Excellent, excellent," he said, beaming and clapping his ring-studded hands together. "The Light embraces all of us in the end, though what it plans to do with those mangy little ankle-blisterers is quite beyond me, I must admit." His pudgy brow crinkled, and he rubbed absently at his left buttock as though remembering an old injury. "Something hideous, I hope."

Callista had finally succeeded in clearing the last of the smoke and sawdust from her eyes, but the ash stuck to the tracks of her tears itched fiercely. "Can the Light  _do_  hideous?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Dashed if I know," Lord Duncan said. "Mollins?"

The manservant, evidently used to being addressed at such unconventional times, didn't even blink his wrinkle-framed eyes. " _You_  were the paladin, sir."

"Quite right, quite right." He nodded sagely, causing the silk of his collar to rustle in agreement. "Awful business, that, a nice young girl like yourself has done well to stay out of it. Enormous orcs with enormous swords, and do you know, I think they actually meant to stick me with them? All rusty and filthy, who knows where they'd been."

"Inside the man in front of you, I believe sir," Mollins said.

Lord Duncan clucked his tongue scoldingly. "Dreadful thing to say in front of a young lady, Mollins. Look, you can see her ears burning from here."

Callista had decided some time ago that no one as fantastically successful as Lord Duncan was could possibly be as fantastically stupid as he tried to pretend to be, so the façade had to be part of some ironic game he played for his own amusement. At any rate, he was one of her few "employers" that she really liked, so she usually indulged him in it. She glanced upward, and was only mildly surprised to see the grey wisps of soot floating around her head. "Just the smoke of victory again, Lord Duncan. That's why it smells like burnt hayloft."

"Ah, wonderful then," Lord Duncan said, clapping his chubby hands together once more.

Mollins cleared his throat pointedly, shifting the hand he held wrapped around the strings of a silken pouch so the coins inside jingled.

"Yes, yes, quite right as always, Mollins, business to attend to," Lord Duncan said. He made an expansive gesture in the direction of the pouch in his manservant's hand, green silks flashing in the sunlight. "Your payment, my dear, and well-earned indeed if success is proportional to property damage. Half now, and half in a fortnight if the little devils remain banished, as we agreed."

Mollins stepped forward (clearly unconvinced by the mage garb she wore) and placed the pouch gingerly into Callista's hand, as though afraid she might sear off his fingers at a touch.

Startled by the weight of the bag – there must have been half again what she'd asked for in there – Callista narrowly avoided dropping it, to the large man's chortle.

"A pleasure as always, Lord Duncan," she said, raising a brow at him.

"So it has been, so it has been," he said with his widest and most delighted smile. "Rest assured that if this contract expires to my satisfaction you'll receive references to all my considerable number of friends. Dratted demons seem to be everywhere these days. Safe travels, my dear!"

She bowed politely to him, which he acknowledged with a nod before the two parties split. Callista climbed the grassy hill to find the tree where she'd tethered her horse, while Lord Duncan and his manservant turned back down the packed-earth path to the house.

When Callista was out of sight around a bend, Mollins turned to his master with his acetic features drawn into a frown. "That woman is a warlock, sir."

"Of course she is, Mollins," Lord Duncan replied. The teeth in his pleased smile flashed almost as brightly as the diamonds at his throat. "Lovely girl, she's the only one who really gets rid of them, you know."

Mollin's frown creased his face into wrinkled canyons. "But…sir…she  _hasn't_ got rid of them. She's keeping them in her  _pockets_."

Lord Duncan waved his hand in a gracefully dismissive gesture. "Yes, yes, I'm well aware of that, Mollins. I was a damned good paladin in my day, you know. Elegant solution she's found, in my opinion. I wonder what she does with them all."

"Breeding a murderous demonic army, no doubt," Mollins muttered.

Lord Duncan's fleshy brow rose. "A murderous demonic army of ankle-biting imps? Dreadful thought. I suppose we'd have to invest, wouldn't we, Mollins?"

"As you say, sir."

* * *

Callista scrubbed at her face with the rune-embroidered sleeve of her robes, but only succeeded in smearing the ash more evenly across it. "Ugh," she said to no one in particular. Her mouth tasted like singed hay, so she pulled the water skin from her saddlebag and took a grateful swig to clear it.

A healthy pouch of gold and two more imprisoned demons wasn't bad at all for a day's trouble. Callista tossed the pouch into the saddlebag with the waterskin and removed the two green-fogged crystal spheres from her pocket, sliding them into a sturdy leather bag already a quarter full of such objects. The mare's silky white ears lay flat against her head as Callista fiddled with her supplies, but at least she didn't kick this time.

She unhitched the mare from the apple tree (automatically dodging the snap of the animal's large flat teeth) and swung herself up into the saddle, squeezing her knees to urge her forward. Lord Duncan's lands were near enough to Stormwind City that she could probably ride home before nightfall, but she thought it might be better to take a room in Goldshire and wait for the taint of demonic magic to fade from her before entering the capital. Dabbling in fel magic wasn't illegal –  _quite_  – in Alliance lands, but it was the sort of thing you didn't want to advertise in public lest "accidents" happen to you. Especially now.

Leaves played dappled shadows on the dirt path as Callista rode through Lord Duncan's prosperous farmland in the direction of the main road. She'd never seen the people of Stormwind so skittish, she reflected, not even when that enormous doomlord wrenched open the Dark Portal. Not that they didn't have good reason to be. Demons, disappearances… Before she'd been...away...during her ill-fated attempt at dreadsteed summoning, it had been rare to see so much as an imp any nearer to Stormwind than Deadwind Pass, but now demons were appearing with alarming frequency within the holdings of the capital itself. They had no particular purpose that she could tell, and that disturbed her – if no one was summoning them intentionally, then they were slipping through in the wake of something else. And even Callista, who was better positioned for word on Legion scheming than most in Stormwind, had heard no mutterings of that.

The oak-lined path opened up ahead as it merged with the road to Goldshire, dust hanging over it in a low golden shroud. She waited for a messenger clad in the livery of the Stormwind Guard to gallop past before urging her steed onto it in a lazy trot. Troubled times these may have been, but at least they were making her rich. Nobles would pay handsomely to rid their estates of alarming demonic trespassers, and the goblin Trade Coalition would pay even more handsomely for the imprisoned demons themselves. Silvermoon City, she knew, was starved for magic in all its forms. Another month or so of this, and Callista would never have to worry about gold again for the rest of her life. It was an enjoyable thought.

Birds chirped cheerfully in the branches that overhung the road, and wildflowers poked their colorful heads from the shade beneath the forest eaves. Even the white mare (bred, Callista suspected, for paladins, no matter what that gap-toothed horse trader had sworn to her) seemed less ill-tempered than usual. At this pace, it would take two hours or more to reach the Lion's Pride Inn, but that was alright. There was plenty of time until nightfall, and she was willing to enjoy the ride.

 


	2. Unpleasant Meetings

It was two days before Callista guided her horse, more brown than white now with the dirt of traveling, up the granite cobbles between the crowded gates of Stormwind. The towering statues of old heroes cast little shade in the noonday sun, and the dust kicked up by dozens of hooves and wagon wheels clung to the sweat that beaded her neck. She'd intended for her first act upon reaching home to involve a long warm bath, but a cold flagon and a plate of bread and cheese at the local tavern was sounding more and more appealing. Besides, she'd been away from the capital for more than a week, and the kind of news that interested her was hard to find in the countryside.

Waving goodbye to the plump merchant seated on the gaudy carriage to her right (the road from Goldshire was quite safe, but merchants were still pleased to travel with friendly mages – or those they believed to be – just in case), she turned her horse off the main road and on to one of the side streets that led to the Mage Quarter.

This lane was only slightly less packed, thick with merchants and their customers, messenger boys (and pickpockets pretending to be messenger boys, no doubt) dashing through the press. The white mare snorted and snapped at a black gelding passing the other way, and Callista yanked warningly on the bit. Sometimes she thought the creature was only barely less mad than her felsteed, but at least it was less likely to get her lynched.

Her mount calmed somewhat as they left the crowded streets of commerce near the city center and moved deeper into the Mage Quarter. Here, the noisy peddlers of fruit and fish were replaced by more sedate shops selling magical artifacts and tomes. Soldiers wearing the tabards of various Alliance organizations (the Stormwind Guard, the Argent Dawn, even a nondescript-looking woman she imagined was SI:7) called out recruitment pitches for missions requiring arcane talent. Callista ignored them, having a healthy dislike for mercenary work. The coin was almost never worth the level of risk involved, and any arcanist of even middling talent could do far better at something else.

She dug a knee into her mare's side, directing it down a twisting alleyway that somehow managed to seem darker than the main thoroughfare, though that was probably just a trick of the narrow street and the high buildings that flanked it. A battered sign bearing the name "The Slaughtered Lamb" hung over a shadowy doorway halfway down the alley.

Callista swung herself out of the saddle in front of the sign, tying her horse up to a free hitching post and giving the well a few pumps to fill the trough before it. The mare eyed her balefully and switched her tail, clearly unhappy with the local atmosphere, but after a moment condescended to drink.

Callista narrowed her eyes at the animal – she wasn't about to be judged by some walnut-brained fiend of a horse, even if that trader  _had_  lied – before pushing the door open and stepping into the pub.

The inside was dark and mostly empty, smelling faintly of spilled beer and faded enchantments. This wasn't unusual – most places frequented by students of magic tended to smell that way.

She took a seat at one of the cracked leather stools at the bar and placed her order with the dour-faced bartender, half-turning to survey her fellow customers. There weren't very many this early in the day, but two women sat at a round table in the back corner, one of whom waved her over upon noticing her gaze.

Recognizing both, Callista hesitated ambivalently a moment before deciding there was no dignified way to escape and sliding off the stool, giving a brief half-wave in acknowledgement. Madame Fairchild, the woman who'd beckoned, sat in her chair in a straight-backed, somewhat professorial way, grey robes falling in stiff lines around her. The other woman, Lady Devereux, had golden hair and eyes the startling blue of a habitual arcane user (though Callista would've bet her last soul shard the only magic she'd done lately was the illusion that kept them that color) and would have turned heads at any royal function.

Lady Devereux's lip curled delicately as Callista approached, eyes lingering pointedly on the dirt that streaked her face and clothes. Deciding she was glad she'd come over after all, Callista pulled out the chair nearest her on wicked impulse, settling herself in it rather more heavily than was necessary and causing a puff of dust to rise from her traveling cloak.

The woman's look of disgust became more pronounced as she waved the dust away with a manicured hand. "Are you certain the Academy expelled you for your demons and not your manners?"

"No," Callista said, weighing the amusement value of pointing out there was hay stuck to her eyelashes against that of letting her discover it for herself.

Madame Fairchild ignored this exchange of hostilities, fixing sharp black eyes on Callista's face. "Daeron Miller is missing," she said abruptly.

Callista cocked her head and wrinkled her nose, somewhat startled by the shift in topic and not sure what she was meant to make of it. She knew Daeron, vaguely, but he was certainly no friend, and it wasn't as though it was strange for warlocks to vanish periodically. She'd done it herself not too long ago. "Is that why you called me over here?" she asked, hoping this conversation wouldn't actually be as dull as she now suspected. "His wife probably caught him with that succubus and chained him to the hearth."

Lady Devereux sniffed prettily, and there was a brief pause as a barmaid arrived with Callista's bread and cheese and a flagon of beer.

"Then why is she running about town wailing and offering gold for a search party?" Lady Devereux said once the barmaid was out of earshot, pretending to examine her pristine nails for flaws.

Callista, who knew Talia Miller about as well as she did her husband, resisted the urge to scoff. She thought the woman seemed far too practical to go wailing about anywhere, but she got the point. Not that that made Daeron's possible fate any more interesting. "Maybe the succubus caught him with his wife and chained him to the summoning circle."

Lady Devereux tossed her head so her hair shone, reminding Callista strongly of her own succubus. "Slightly more likely," she said with a deceptively lovely smile. The woman claimed to have High Elven blood in her family, and had the fine-featured good looks to prove it, but if it was true then the elvish talent for magic had completely passed her over. Not that that made her stupid – she'd married a very influential lord (who almost certainly had no idea where his wife was at this moment) and was perpetually up to her not-quite-pointy ears in Alliance politics. Callista intensely disliked her; practitioners of demonic magic walked a knife's edge of legality, and the woman's position made her nervous.

"Is there a point to this?" Callista asked, narrowing her eyes and slicing a piece of cheese from the block with a sharp motion.

"Yes," Madame Fairchild said. She folded her hands neatly on the table in front of her, shooting the golden-haired woman beside her an unreadable look. "Our colleagues are disappearing, we don't know why, and it's no longer only the ones we'd expect."

Callista raised a brow, still not convinced this was worth her and Lady Devereux suffering each other's company, but slightly more interested. Not just traitors and fools whose own demons murdered them, then. "What makes you think Daeron didn't defect?"

Madame Fairchild shook her grey-streaked head. "He may have been indifferent to his wife's charms, but by all accounts he loved his daughter. I don't think you'll find him in the…usual…places."

The usual places being Jaedenar or one of the other Burning Legion outposts on Azeroth. It was amazing how many "vanished" warlocks turned up there eventually, especially with the war going poorly in Outland.

Callista tore off a chunk of bread and swallowed it. "Then what sort of places do you think you'd – "

She didn't bother finishing her question as her gaze lit on Lady Devereux's face, which was currently arranged in an even more intense expression of scorn than usual. "Oh, Twisting Nether," she said instead, half in amusement and half in irritation. "What sort of conspiracy is it now?"

"An imaginary one," Lady Devereux said. "As I've already explained to our dear Madame Fairchild, you're far too valuable now. Who else would deal with all these wretched demons?"

"Unless someone's looking for someone to blame for them," Madame Fairchild said, drumming her fingernails on the tabletop in a measured pattern.

Lady Devereux's eyes flicked to her scornfully. "They aren't."

"Then where's Daeron?" Callista put in, perverse dislike of the golden-haired woman momentarily overriding her conviction that Madame Fairchild was insane.

The Lady's rosy lips curved delightedly, putting Callista in mind of one of the crocolisks that occasionally surfaced in the city canals, albeit a very beautiful one. "I'm sure  _I_  don't know. Where were you when  _you_  vanished for weeks?"

Madame Fairchild leaned forward slightly over her folded hands, and Callista suspected they'd hit on the real reason she'd been summoned into this little discussion. Annoyance at being suckered into an interrogation when she'd been looking for gossip, coupled with the unpleasantness of being filthy and travel-sore, bred in her a vicious irritation. If they thought they were about to hear anything useful they would be sadly disappointed. Callista had been posed this question countless times since her return from Booty Bay, and she alternated between answering with a plausible lie and the most lurid thing she could think of. There was no doubt in her mind which one this situation warranted.

She swept her eyes over the room as though checking for eavesdroppers, leaning forward seriously. "Argus," she said in a breathy whisper. "I joined the Shadow Council, married an orc, and swore our pasty-skinned babies to the Legion lords."

There was a brief moment of silence in the wake of her pronouncement, broken by Madame Fairchild's unimpressed snort.

They didn't believe her, obviously, because the story was ridiculous, and in hindsight Callista regretted making up something so immediately dismissible. It was much more satisfying to imagine them stewing after she'd left. Struck by a sudden burst of diabolical inspiration, she stood up and pushed her chair back, tossing a handful of coppers onto the table and scooping up what was left of her bread and cheese. "Two of those things are lies, of course," she said, lingering just long enough to see Madame Fairchild's brow crease with confusion before turning and stepping from the bar.

Satisfied that the two women would shortly be just as cranky as she was trying to figure out what in the Nether she was talking about, she pocketed the hunk of break and held the cheese between her teeth, untethering her horse and swatting absently at its nose when it tried to bite her. Warlocks weren't all paranoid, power-grubbing harpies, but they did tend to lie more in that direction than the population at large. If her friend Tun had been here, she suspected he would've told her to walk away in the first place from a conversation she knew would be both useless and unpleasant, and she also suspected the idea might have some merit. If only the thought of skulking away from those two witches like a kicked dog didn't make her teeth grind.

Hoisting herself back into her saddle, she swallowed the last bit of cheese as her mare trotted out of the alleyway and into the full sunlight of the main street. Lunch hadn't been as pleasant as she'd hoped, but at least she could get herself cleaned up now on a full stomach. She let the mare choose her own pace as they picked their way around the foot traffic, making for the yellow-thatched roof of the local stables.

A flock of children tumbled out of a shop ahead of her, all clad in identical blue cloaks and clutching books of spells as they giggled and shrieked at one another, and she drew rein to let them cross. They were clearly students of the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences at the end of the street, which put her in mind of Tun again. She hoped the gnome remembered their dinner plans for tonight. Otherwise she'd have to go up into the Wizard's Sanctum to drag him out, and even though it had been years since any of the professors there could set her to diagramming spells, she still had to fight an ingrained urge to cringe guiltily whenever some bearded old archmage scowled at her. And they  _did_  scowl – those who remembered the circumstances of her expulsion, anyway.

She walked her mare up to the front of the stables and dismounted, handing the reins to a freckled stable boy who ran up to greet her. Unbuckling her saddlebags and slinging them across her shoulder, she began the short walk home, squinting as she moved out of the shade and into the bright sunlight.

The day was hot, but a breeze, sea-scented from the port that was Stormwind City's heart, ruffled the pennants that hung from the Academy's ivy-wreathed towers. Callista's house was in a decent part of town, populated mostly by mages and near to the stables, but the hair that had escaped her messy knot was damp and clinging to the back of her neck by the time she turned on to her street.

She shifted the straps of her saddlebags and began digging around the inside pocket of her robes for the key as the familiar slate roof drew into sight. Like most of the houses in this row, Callista's was cheerfully whitewashed, second floor windows peeping out from beneath deep dormers.

Unlike most of the houses in this row, Callista's had a man in full plate armor standing on its step, clad in the colors of the Guard and digging the point of his broadsword into the flagstones.

Callista froze, eyes narrowing.

Someone behind her, caught unawares by her abrupt stop, jostled into her and swore, but she hardly noticed. What in the Nether was  _he_  doing there?

More mystified than really alarmed – yet – she whirled and pretended to examine the wares of a tinkerer who'd laid his mechanical gadgets out on the grass near the street, mentally running through her list of possible offences. Since she hadn't spent much time in the city lately this was easier than usual, and her eyes widened again as she realized, with surprise and a strange sort of misgiving, that she couldn't think of any. None that would result in one guard and not a whole squad of them, at any rate. Oh, plaguing hells, had that jittery Madame Fairchild actually been right?

Seized by the twin specters of impending arrest and her colleague's vindictive gloating, she turned away from the mechanical squirrels gamboling on the grass and began to walk rapidly back the way she'd come, resisting the impulse to pull her hood up to hide her face.

She needed someone to mull this over with (as well as somewhere to stash her saddlebags, which were beginning to dig uncomfortably into her shoulder). With that end in mind, she cut down the first cross street she came to, pointing herself towards the dignified stone towers of the Academy of the Arcane Arts.

* * *

Ensconced in a comfortably-worn armchair behind an antique reading desk, Tunregar Weldiciruit leaned close over the yellowed page in front of him. The meticulously-inked diagrams, faded by age to a tea-stained brown, were difficult to read even in the light of the enchanted globe that floated over his right shoulder. An original treatise on underwater ward-breaking by Erzavet the Bluefaced…

He dipped his quill absently into the inkwell, and was just about to set nib to paper when a sharp knock scattered his thoughts. Annoyed at the interruption, he toyed for a moment with the idea of not answering and pretending to be out, but when the sound repeated itself more insistently he set the quill down with a sigh. "It's unlocked!" he called, somewhat impatiently.

The door swung open wide enough to admit Callista's slim form, clad in a dusty traveling cloak and dragging a pair of saddlebags. She nudged the door shut with her foot as she dropped her luggage and looked at him. "The Stormwind Guard is on my front lawn," she announced, with a curious mixture of irritation and the self-satisfaction of someone who's just thrown a lit firecracker into the room.

Not ready to give up his annoyance just yet, Tun furrowed his brow and traced a finger down a particularly obscure passage in Erzavet's text. Still grasping for the pieces of his interrupted thought (and having heard similar pronouncements too many times before to be more than vaguely alarmed), he picked up his quill again and flicked the excess ink off against the side of the well. "All of it?" he asked.

"No, just the one. How many do I need?"

Tun finally gave his half-formed sentence up for lost and dropped his quill, leaning back in his armchair and looking up at his friend. If she'd been hauling around two clearly heavy saddlebags, it meant she hadn't been home yet since her trip, which meant, despite her apparent unconcern, she was taking this at least somewhat seriously. Sympathy born of affection warred with suspicion born of long association. "What did you do?" he asked, tilting his head to eye her critically sidelong.

"I didn't do anything!" Callista said, shedding her dusty cloak and perching herself on one of the chairs opposite his desk with a disgruntled expression. "Which is exactly what I don't like. How am I supposed to know what to lie about?"

She looked sincere enough (relatively speaking), and for once Tun thought that she might actually be innocent. After all, she'd been spending most of her time lately away from the city, and making inroads on the recent plague of imps was something Alliance authorities would be likely to appreciate rather than condemn (even if her rates  _were_  exorbitant). "How do you know he was going to arrest you?"

"What else would he be doing in my yard?"

Tun carefully shut Erzavet's tome and pushed it to the side of his desk, waving away his reading light so it floated up into one of the corners. "You could've tried asking him..." he said.

Callista wrinkled her nose, clearly not thinking much of that idea.

Tun rolled his eyes. "You can't avoid your own house forever."

"I  _had_ been planning to move…" she said thoughtfully. Clad in pale green and silver caster's robes, she looked wholly un-warlock-like and almost indistinguishable from any of his colleagues in the Sanctum. Which was what she  _should_  have been, Tun thought with a mix of regret and irritation, if she'd ever learned to exercise a little less recklessness and a little more restraint.

He snorted, shifting in his chair and stretching a little after so long poring over his work. Maybe it was for the best she'd interrupted him. He couldn't even remember if he'd eaten yet today. "Unless it's to Shattrath City, you'd better find out what they want. I'll go with you if you think it will help."

"I suppose," Callista said reluctantly, not looking particularly pleased with the inevitable. She glanced down at herself and made a face at the state of her clothes. "But not today. I need to clean up before dinner."

She  _was_  rather dusty, Tun observed. The green mageweave of her robes faded to muddy brown at the hem. "Is there any dirt left in Goldshire?" he wondered.

"Nope, got it all. Can I borrow your house?"

"Yes," he said, drawing a ring of keys from his pocket and pulling one off before tossing it to her. "Here. I need to finish, but I'll meet you at sixth bell."

"Thanks," she replied, catching it. She stood and began collecting her cloak and saddlebags from where she'd dropped them, slinging one over each shoulder. "If I see Archmage Gaiman on the stairs I'll pretend I don't know you," she said, waggling her brows playfully.

Tun rolled his eyes affectionately. "Go take a bath."

She left and shut the door behind her, leaving him once more in the pleasant solitude of his study. Motes of dust drifted lazily in the light that slanted through the arched window behind him, and the enchanted gadgets and focusing crystals that bookended the tomes on his shelves gleamed. He stretched contentedly again before reaching for Erzavet and waving his reading lamp over to bob above his shoulder.

All things considered, he didn't think Callista's mysterious trespasser would amount to anything serious. Probably just a guardsman canvassing for a missing child, or searching for the owner of some recovered object. Or, at the very worst, asking questions about some infraction so minor she'd forgotten about it – sometimes he suspected that Callista deliberately encouraged these kinds of pickles just because she got bored. Hopefully she wasn't actually in too much trouble. Not that, he reasoned dryly, anything could possibly be more trouble than the last of her escapades he'd involved himself in. At least there were no dreadlords in the Guard.

He muttered a simple cantrip that riffled the pages of his book open to where he'd left off, fanning the scent of old parchment into the air. Leaning over the faded diagram once more, he picked up his quill.

* * *

Much cleaner and changed into a spare tunic from one of her packs, Callista shifted in the armchair she'd curled herself into in Tun's sitting room, rearranging the heavy tome on her lap. A glance at the intricate timepiece on the mantle (the clock had no casing, revealing the stylized gears and counterweights of the mechanism) confirmed that it was already nearly seven o'clock. Giving a fond snort at her friend's tardiness, she stretched briefly and turned the page, examining the neatly-penned enchantments on the other side.

Tun's latest academic obsession was with rune magic, and this particular volume featured an in-depth survey of warding inscriptions. Some of them looked very similar to the spells she'd carved into the crystal spheres she used in her demon-catching, and she skimmed the chapters with interest, pausing to read more thoroughly the bits that looked applicable. Maybe she'd see if Tun would let her borrow this one.

The click of the doorknob turning caught her attention. She looked up in time to see Tun hurry in from the street, pausing to hang his leather satchel on a hook near the door. "Sorry I'm late," he said, grimacing at her and running a hand sheepishly through his tousled green hair. "I got distracted – "

He paused as he noticed the book in her lap, excuse forgotten as his gaze suddenly sharpened. "Is that Tabetha's treatise? What did you think of the section on warding against demons?"

Callista closed the book and set it on the end table next to her chair, standing and brushing the wrinkles out of her tunic. The excerpt Tun referred to was actually the first thing she'd read, and from it had concluded that the author, though clearly an exceptionally skilled mage, was familiar with demonic magic only through hearsay. "Elegant and technically brilliant…" she said, quirking a lip, "if you want to get killed."

"I knew it," Tun said with satisfaction. "She forgot to account for counterspells."

"Her enchantments might still be good for cursed objects," Callista said, cocking her head. She handed him back his house key as they ambled out into the street and shut the door behind them. Their shadows stretched long in the mellow light of late afternoon, and the neighborhood was quiet, mostly cleared of the midday bustle. "The ones that can't fight back, at least."

"They might," Tun said, gaze unfocused on the scenery around him as he mused. "Maybe I'll write a commentary."

Callista nodded as she strolled along at his side, content to slow her pace to match the gnome's smaller steps. Summer days in Stormwind could be scorching, and she enjoyed the evenings the best. Especially evenings with the prospect of good food and a long night's sleep at the end of them.

Laughter and the sound of clattering plates spilled from the open doors of The Gilded Rose as they drew near. The usual dinner crowd was out in force, and patrons leaned against the porch rails, pipes lit, or hallooed cheerfully to attract the attention of arriving friends. Callista slid sideways through the press around the doors, Tun following in her wake.

The sound intensified as they moved into the enclosed space, and she stood on tiptoes to try to see over the shoulders of the people around her (some of whom were dusky-skinned Night Elves or Draenei, and much taller than she was).

"I think Nissa's already here!" Tun shouted to be heard over the din. "There!" he said after a moment, tugging on the sleeve of her tunic.

A Night Elf woman and her two armored companions moved out of Callista's line of sight to reveal a purple-haired gnome seated at a booth, a harried-looking human man hunched over a book across from her. She waved as Callista and Tun waded through the crowd to join them.

They'd already ordered a large potful of beef stew, and it sat half-empty on the tabletop along with two untouched bowls. "We were going to wait," Nissa said with a teasing smile at Tun, nodding her chin towards it, "but, well…we know you, dear."

"I'm not  _always_  late," Tun said mock-huffily, sliding into the booth beside her and pecking her on the cheek.

"Only mostly always?" Callista suggested. She dodged the piece of bread crust he threw at her as she sat down next to the young man poring over his book. He didn't even look up at her, muttering inaudibly to himself. "Hello, Darryl," she said, craning her neck to see what could possibly be so interesting.

"Don't talk to me," he muttered distractedly, hunching down further into his seat. "Have to study."

"He's got an examination with Lady Elsharin tomorrow," Nissa explained in response to Callista's raised brow. "He's convinced he's going to open a portal to somewhere so horrible they expel him immediately."

Callista made a disbelieving sound. Darryl was Nissa's protégé, and was about as likely to bungle his portal exam that badly as Callista was to wake up a priestess. "Being expelled isn't  _so_  bad," she said, petting him sympathetically on the shoulder before ladling herself a bowl of lukewarm stew.

"Easy for you to say," Darryl replied, completely oblivious to the fact he was being teased as he looked up from his text long enough to scowl at her. His blue eyes were red-rimmed, and the beginnings of a beard scruffed his chin. "I  _hate_  demons. And blood. Oh, Light, warlocks have to look at blood, don't they?"

Nissa sighed, reaching over to pat his hand with one of her small ones. "No one's going to  _make_  you be a warlock," she reassured him patiently. "You're going to do fine."

"He needs a stronger drink," Callista recommended, dunking a piece of bread into her stew.

"Drinks," Darryl muttered. The paper muffled his voice as he let his head fall to bury his face in the crease of his open book. "Lots and lots of drinks."

He cut such a perfect caricature of misery that Callista laughed. "Oh, alright," she said. She popped the piece of bread into her mouth and stood up from the table. "I'm getting him drinks," she said to Tun and Nissa. "Do you want anything?"

"She's been fleecing the nobility again," Tun said in a stage whisper to his girlfriend, pulling his face into a frown.

"Has she?" Nissa asked delightedly. "In that case I'd like a glass of mead, please."

"None for me, thanks," Tun said, making a face and waving his hands in a warding gesture. He planned to wake up "early" tomorrow to work on his new treatise, and even though early for Tun meant sometime around eleven, Callista knew better than to press the issue.

"Alright. I'll be back," she said, turning to weave her way through the sea of people that filled the inn.

She managed after a few moments to push herself to within sight of the bar, which was packed with both the Stormwind regulars and the usual crowd of travelers passing through. The bartender hovered at the far side taking the order of a large party of dwarves, and Callista resigned herself to wait.

She'd only been standing for a few minutes when a large hand settled heavily on her shoulder. Startled, she jerked and then whirled around. Opening her mouth to playfully scold whichever of her friends it was for alarming her, she shut it again, narrowing her eyes, as she realized she didn't recognize the man's face. Hair, nose, skin…all of his features were bland and utterly nondescript, and her gaze seemed to slide involuntarily away from him if she stared too hard. The effect set her teeth on edge. "Do I know you?" she asked, staring at his hand in a way that suggested he might shortly be losing it.

"Probably not," the man said, looking completely unaffected by her glare as he removed the offending limb. "Callista Dunhaven?"

"Who?" she asked, crinkling her brow in puzzlement.

The man smiled, an expression cold as the flash of a knife. "Don't."

She eyed him venomously but didn't try to lie again, liking this encounter less by the second. This was exactly the sort of thing she expected to happen in a shady corner of The Slaughtered Lamb, not in a crowded public space when she was out to dinner with friends. Either way, though, Callista had bargained with creatures a lot nastier than whoever this man thought he was, and it would take a great deal more than a smile and a face like a blank piece of parchment to intimidate her. "Whatever you want," she said, showing her teeth in imitation of his expression, " _no_."

"That would be very rash," the man said. "I have a business proposition for you."

"Then write me a letter."

"I suppose I could," he said, stroking his completely unremarkable chin thoughtfully. "What's the postage to the Vault, I wonder."

Callista's eyes narrowed even further as her sensation of being cornered increased. Well, that had degenerated into bald-faced threats rather sooner than she'd expected. She wished Tun or someone would come over to see what was taking her so long. "You tell me," she said aggressively, trying to project more certainty than she felt. "Last I checked,  _extortion_  was still illegal."

She didn't think it was possible, but the man's smile became even more glacial. "Take a walk with me."

There was nothing Callista would've liked less on all of Azeroth, but unfortunately she didn't see that she had a choice. This almost certainly had something to do with that guard she'd seen posted at her house, in which case not only did this man know where she lived, but he also had more clout with the Alliance powers that be than she could ever dream of. Since she had no intention of fleeing the continent, she followed coldly in his wake as he made his way to the exit.

She craned her head back over her shoulder as she jostled through the crowd, trying and failing to catch the eye of one of her companions back at the booth. Cursing inwardly, she crossed the threshold into the cool evening air.

"This only has to be unpleasant if you make it that way," the man said, watching her closely as he fell into step beside her. His features seemed to blur even more in the orangey light of sunset. Whatever enchantment he'd used to mask himself, it was extremely well done.

Callista snorted. "You  _threatened_  me. Who are you and what do you want?"

They walked down the cobbled path and back out to the street, leaving behind the patrons smoking on the inn porch. The man steered her to an empty cul de sac ringed with expensive shops, making sure they were alone before continuing. "You want to dispense with the niceties?" he said quietly. "Fine. I'll put it plainly. We have a task for you, you'll do it, or we'll put you in a cell until even your familiars die of old age."

A baleful glitter entered Callista's eyes at his blunt statement. Dealing with demons, she'd gotten very good at disregarding heartfelt threats, but something about this man made her nervous. "You can't arrest me," she said, "because I haven't done anything. Or does SI:7 invent its own evidence now?" That last part was a guess, but she thought it was a good one based on the quality of his disguise.

The man actually laughed, flashing those cold white teeth again. "We've done much worse than that, I promise you."

The temperature of the balmy night air suddenly seemed to drop as icy fingers of dread closed around her. He was lying. He had to be…or she was in more trouble than she'd even thought possible.

Something of what she was feeling must have told on her face (she suspected she'd paled) because he continued with a dismissive flick of his hand. "Not that we'd need to resort to such methods. The House of Nobles has resurrected the Wishock petition, and you and your…colleagues…have just become very, very vulnerable."

The Wishock petition? It took Callista a moment to place the name, but when she did she nearly laughed. "You mean they're shutting down The Slaughtered Lamb?" She tossed her hands up in faux despair. "Oh, no, wherever will I drink?"

"Yes, that was the petition's original purpose," the man said, and she thought she could read hard amusement on his strangely malleable face. "But its reach has…expanded somewhat in committee. Should it be ratified, any practice of fel magic within the Kingdom of Stormwind will be punishable as highest treason. And before you ask, it  _is_  retroactive."

For a moment she was silent, digesting this and feeling the icy fingers creep back. The only reason she hadn't totally surrendered to them yet was that the only evidence she had of any of this was the word of a wholly untrustworthy-looking stranger. If it was really true, what he was telling her was serious enough that she would almost certainly have heard of it already. "Who's sponsoring this petition?" she asked.

"Lord Devereux."

That stopped her cold. Yes, she almost certainly would have heard of this – if the petition's main supporter hadn't been the husband of the warlock community's main political source. She wondered how many of those disappearances Madame Fairchild had been worried about had been colleagues close to the court. Her jaw tightened, and she resisted the urge to close her hand around one of the soul shards she always kept in her pockets. She wasn't completely resigned to whatever "task" this assassin had for her, but her ways out were collapsing around her one by one, and she didn't like the sensation. "Alright," she said in a carefully measured voice. "I believe you had a _..._ business proposition _?"_

"See? Not so bad," the man said with another of those knife-like smiles. "The House of Nobles is financing an expedition – mostly knights of the Argent Dawn – to search for a missing settlement of Lordaeron refugees on Kalimdor. You'll be part of it."

Callista's nose crinkled in distaste. "Paladins? What in the Twisting Nether do they want with me?"

The man shrugged. "The route passes near Felwood. And," he continued after a brief pause, "neither of the other parties came back."

Oh. So  _that's_  how it was. She could die in a cell, or she could die on a suicide mission. "So you want me to go with them, and do…what, exactly," Callista said, eyeing him scathingly. "Enslave the entire  _forest_?"

The man shrugged again. "That's not really my problem, is it? The expedition leaves at dawn in two days on the ship  _The Fortitude_. Third pier. Your commander is Sir Aren Westwood. Take it or leave it."

"And if I take it?" Callista asked, unable to keep the spite from her voice.

"Then we don't arrest you," the man said. The sun had gone down behind the buildings, and dark shadows flickered oddly across his features. "And you'll be paid, of course. With an option for future immunity to all related crimes, should you decide to stay on with the House of Nobles. If you survive, naturally."

"I see," she said. Somewhere in the last few exchanges, her dread had transmuted into a cold but savage fury. No matter how she spun it, she could think of no way to get out of this.

For now.

She needed to cut her losses and buy herself time to think of something else, and so she narrowed her eyes. "Then I suppose I have no choice but to accept."

"I knew you'd be reasonable," the man said, white teeth glinting in the dark. "No need to look so angry. Think of it as…an opportunity."

"Angry? I'm just flattered you went to all this trouble for me," Callista sneered.

The man laughed, a sound with all the warmth of drawn steel. "Don't be." He smirked as he turned to depart. "Any of your kind would've done. You were just the easiest to catch." He left the words to rankle, sauntering off and fading into the shadowed street.

Callista, momentarily speechless, merely glared viciously at his retreating back.

 


	3. Sunrise

Still seething (and more than a little bewildered at the speed with which her life had been upended) Callista walked back through the twilight towards the friendly glow of The Gilded Rose. The knots of people socializing outside had dispersed with sunset, but as she pushed open the heavy wooden door she found the inside still bright and cheerfully packed.

_The easiest to catch_ – the assassin's words galled her, in large part because they were probably true. In her work as glorified vermin-catcher for the nobility, she'd stopped just barely short of advertising her real talents. That she was a warlock was an open secret that almost all of her employers knew, though few were ill-bred enough to talk about it. She'd been arrogant enough to think that their influence would protect her (who else would keep a felhound from savaging the game on their hunting estates?), but in fact it seemed to have done the opposite, making of her a pathetically easy victim for whoever had arranged this expedition.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ If what that assassin had said was true, they could collect enough material to arrest her several times over.

She pushed past the crowded bar to find Tun, Nissa and Darryl still seated where she'd left them, laughing at some anecdote and picking at the remains of their dinners. They looked up as she approached (all except Darryl, who continued to frown at some particularly tricky passage in his text).

"What  _happened_  to you?" Tun asked, an affectionate note of scolding in his voice. "We were just about to go look – "

He trailed off as he got a better view of her sour expression. "Callista? Are you alright?"

"I think I've been enlisted," she said, settling back into her seat and jabbing her spoon violently into her bowl of now cold stew.

"Enlisted?" he echoed, setting down his own spoon to stare. "Into  _what_?"

That was actually an excellent question. She knew she was supposed to get on a boat with a bunch of (no doubt) bleeding heart paladins to look for some foolish pack of refugees, but she wasn't even sure where they were going. "I don't know. Some kind of rescue mission, I think."

Nissa scoffed (probably at the idea of Callista rescuing anyone). "Tell them you aren't interested."

"I did. The assassin they sent to talk to me wasn't interested in my lack of interest."

"They sent an assassin?" Nissa asked, suspicion entering her large brown eyes. "What did you  _do_?"

Callista made a face in response. Why were people forever asking her that? "Nothing!" she said, taking another sharp stab at her stew. The spoon clattered furiously off the side of the bowl. "The House of Nobles is reviving some anti-warlock petition, and if I don't play along they're going to arrest me."

"That isn't even legal!" Tun said, almost knocking over his mug with an indignant gesture.

"What are you going to do?" Nissa asked, somewhat more practically, steadying Tun's mug just before it splattered her with beer.

Callista rubbed at the bridge of her nose. She was still angry, but an uncomfortable trapped feeling was beginning to erode the edges of her ire. "I don't know. The ship leaves in two days, and I said I'd be on it. Not that I intend to be," she finished defiantly.

Tun pulled up one side of his mouth, misgiving tingeing his expression as he recognized her tone as one that no good ever came of. "Just…please  _try_  to be careful?"

Callista wasn't very good at being careful under the best of circumstances, let alone when she was as agitated as she was now. She twitched her shoulders impatiently, gazing darkly into the dregs of her stew. "When I find out who did this, I'll be  _careful_  my felhound doesn't  _choke_  on him."

Tun rolled his eyes and sighed.

Darryl, who up to this point had been chewing his lip as he stared at his book with an air of total absorption, chose this moment to raise his rumpled head and peer at her. "Being arrested won't be  _so_ bad," he said, patting her shoulder with an ink-smeared hand.

Callista, who under other circumstances might've been amused at the mage's uncharacteristic spark of malice, shot him a look of pure venom.

* * *

The next afternoon, Callista sat on her bed with a large map of Kalimdor spread out across her quilt, narrowing her eyes in the general direction of Winterspring. A tough leather pack, half filled with traveling gear, slumped against her side.

So far today she'd already been to The Slaughtered Lamb to speak with Madame Fairchild (the woman had been alarmed at her news, then smug, then coolly indifferent to Callista's fate, in approximately that order) and down to the docks to speak with the Stormwind harbormaster. An irritable clerk had informed her that yes, the ship  _The Fortitude_  was due to depart at sunrise tomorrow, commissioned by a knight of the Argent Dawn to sail to the elven port of Auberdine, but had refused to tell her anything more.

The whole morning gone, and she'd learned nothing she hadn't already known or couldn't have guessed.

She prodded the stylized tree on the map that represented Auberdine, tracing her fingertip across the murky green blotch that marked Felwood. From what she'd gathered, they were to land at the port and then travel east through the forest – but  _why_? The only thing on the other side was Winterspring. Even if this mysterious group of settlers had landed there, it would be easier to approach from the south and avoid Felwood (and the inhospitable mountain range that bounded it) altogether. Unless the settlement was  _in_  the mountains. But who in the Nether would make their home there?

Frustrated by the lack of answers, she swept the map aside and climbed off the bed, pulling her wardrobe open and scowling at the contents. Beginning to pack felt unpleasantly like surrender.

She pawed through the clothes hanging before her, pulling out a black robe with crimson accents and eyeing it critically. Callista had two full sets of arcanist's attire; one was the silver and green outfit she wore on legitimate business, bearing only the sort of enchantments typical to fire mages, and the other was this. Many of the runes woven into it were demonic, and though it was better suited to the kind of magic she wielded, it would mark her instantly as a warlock to anyone who looked at her.

After a brief moment of indecision she grabbed the black robes and tossed them onto her open pack. That expedition wanted a warlock…well, now they  _had_  one. If they didn't like what they'd ended up with, maybe they should reevaluate their recruitment methods.

Matters of attire resolved, she cast the map one last frustrated glance before leaving the room and stalking downstairs to the pantry. She shifted aside a sack of flour to clear a trapdoor set into the solid planks of the floor and pulled the iron ring set into its end, revealing a wooden staircase that led down into shadow. If she was really going through with this farce, she'd need more than just clothes.

She waved a hand as she descended to light the torches set in brackets around the room below. The walls were roughly square and made of grey stone, but the floor below was earth; probably it had been a root cellar before the warlock turned it to less ordinary purposes. Shelves cluttered with books and various arcane objects sat along two walls, while a permanent summoning circle dominated the center of the floor, glowing with purple and green runes.

Callista made straight for the far shelf, rustling among the objects laid upon it until she pulled out a dagger in a thick leather sheath. She didn't usually go armed, having little skill with any kind of weapon, but luckily this one didn't require much – it was a Legion blade, and the enchantments on it made any wound it delivered devilishly hard to staunch. She slid the dagger from its sheath, noting with satisfaction the sickly shine of the metal, before replacing it and snagging a bag of infernal stones and an almost full pouch of soul shards with her free hand. Better to bring more than she thought she'd need – paladins seemed to have few qualms about smashing things with those hammers, but they got very squeamish about souls.

Her gaze fell on a basketful of ensnared demons, a pile of spheres glowing a poisonous green with dark figures floating at their hearts, and her brow furrowed. She didn't know what sort of token "compensation" she would receive for this expedition, but it wouldn't come close to equaling what she'd miss out on here. She wouldn't even be able to sell the crystals she'd already empowered.

A vindictive impulse to sabotage the wards on a few and wedge them beneath the axles of the first noble carriage she saw seized her, but was only barely outweighed by practicality. Those enchantments would hold for years, and she could always sell them upon her return. Besides, the way her luck had been running lately, the demons would probably manage to claw their way out in a crowd of schoolchildren, or kittens, or something equally tragic.

Shaking her head, she tucked the scabbarded dagger and the two pouches beneath her arm, ascending the stairs and waving out the torches. She was already mostly packed, had exhausted all the potential sources of information she could reach in a day, and had sent a letter to Lord Duncan in the morning post, requesting that he mail his reply to Auberdine. With any luck, he'd demand her immediate return to Stormwind.

Satisfied that she'd done all she could to prepare herself for the morrow, Callista was left with the remainder of the afternoon and evening to kill. The temptation to start drinking now and show up at the docks at sunrise hungover and utterly unfit for duty was very strong, but she was torn as to whether her commander's dismay would be worth spending the rest of the day emptying her stomach over  _The Fortitude_ 's side.

Oh, well.

Tossing the leather pouches onto her kitchen table, she dropped into a chair and tapped her fingernails thoughtfully against the wood, staring at the swirl of the grain without really seeing it. Perhaps she'd make her way over to The Blue Recluse now and just see how things worked out.

* * *

The next morning, she led her horse, burdened with packs, through the murky darkness that preceded the first glint of dawn. Nothing else stirred in the streets, and the clip-clop of the mare's hooves struck lonely echoes from the cobbles. Callista yawned, rubbing her wrist against her eyes to clear the sleep from them. Last night had ended in a compromise: she'd only drunk  _half_  as much as she'd initially intended, and even though she wasn't hungover – exactly – she was still exhausted and had an unpleasantly empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Hopefully the seas would be smooth today, and her shipmates would be sensible enough to leave her alone.

The mare's ears pricked and she snorted as the first sounds of Stormwind's port disturbed the pre-dawn silence.

Callista grimaced at the voices of sailors and seabirds, mood souring. Until this moment, she'd managed to hold out some hope, no matter how small or irrational, that she'd somehow manage to evade this journey. But now, with the laden mare plodding at her side as the masts of ships rose above the dark profile of the city, inevitability settled in heavily. She was really sailing to Auberdine, and there was really nothing she could do about it.

She muttered a curse under her breath.

Leading her horse around the next corner, the long piers of the harbor came into view, crowded with moored ships and lit by dozens of lanterns carried by sailors or hanging from posts set onto the piers themselves. The cries of seabirds awakened by the noise floated down from the dark sky, and the leaping shadows caused by the sway of the lights only added to the impression of hurried activity. It was more than sailors and the large ships that caused it; many small fishing boats were already putting out to sea for the day, and the space between the piers and the large warehouses that serviced them was thick with animals and carts preparing to be loaded into ships' holds.

Callista dragged her reluctant mare into the midst of the chaos, too tired to be very careful as the crowd jostled her against merchants' carriages and sleepy-looking sailors. A great deal of cursing (some of it directed at her) and the clatter of wood against wood filled the salty air. She returned various shouted oaths with scowls as she pushed her way towards the third pier.

_The Fortitude_ , a four-masted clipper with a raked-forward bow, sat tied to it with hawsers thicker than Callista's wrists. Not being a merchant vessel, her pier was at least less crowded with carts and squawking animals than some of the others, but there were still plenty of sailors dashing about, as well as an assortment of more bewildered-looking people who Callista assumed were passengers. She wondered which of them was Sir Aren Westwood. Her scowl became more pronounced at the thought.

No one took any notice of her as she halted her mare at the edge of the pier and looked around skeptically. A sailor led a horse barded in the Argent Dawn's black, silver and gold up the gangplank, confirming that she was in the right place, but who here was she supposed to announce herself to? She was gathering the energy to flag down one of the many ship's hands hurrying past when a strange male voice addressed her.

"Excuse me, miss?"

She turned to see the speaker, and blinked as she got a good look at him. A curly-haired human man clad in a black and silver tabard over chainmail smiled back at her. He was very broad-shouldered, and short enough to make her wonder if there was dwarven blood in his family, but that wasn't what made her stare: a large purple bruise swelled his left cheekbone, and he had another, almost identical man (who she took to be his brother) clinging to his shoulder for support. This other man swayed slightly, and though the right half of his face was clean-shaven (though nicked), the other half sported a day's growth of beard.

"Are you Sir Aren?" Callista asked, looking doubtfully between the first man and his blearily-grinning brother.

The man shook his head with an apologetic smile. "I'm Nathanial Redbranch, and this is my brother, Anduin."

"That's Ander, to everyone who isn't a twit," his brother interrupted with a glare at Nathanial, clapping him (mostly affectionately) on the shoulder. The movement almost caused him to lose his balance, and he had to clutch at his brother's pauldron again to regain it. "Our mother wanted a war hero, but instead she got me," he added in a mock-sorrowful whisper to Callista.

"I'm sorry you have to see him like this," Nathanial said, shaking his head. "He's not usually this drunk."

"I hate  _boats_ ," Ander pronounced as though that settled everything, glowering at the innocuous wooden side of  _The Fortitude_.

"Are you in Sir Aren's company, too?" Nathaniel asked, ignoring his brother. "I can take care of your horse, if you want. I think the commander is calling a meeting on the pier before we board."

Callista eyed the two men indecisively, only partially due to Nathanial's offer. So, these were the people she'd be traveling with. She'd been determined to hate them, but she was finding the brothers extremely difficult to dislike. "Yes, thank you," she said neutrally, torn between her previous resolution to be as nasty as possible to everyone involved in this and her sudden impulse to be friendly.

"Stay. Here," Nathanial instructed his brother sternly, propping him up against a stack of crates prepared for loading. He waited until Callista had removed her packs and saddlebags before taking the mare's bridle. "This shouldn't take long," he assured her.

Ander looked her over from where he was leaning against a rope-trussed barrel for support, poking one of the nicks on the shaved half of his face. "Someone tried to kill me last night, you know," he said, leaning in earnestly, close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath. "He had a knife  _this_  long."

Callista made a face, prodding his armored shoulder with her finger until he stumbled back a step. "They couldn't have tried very hard," she said.

Nathanial made an exasperated noise, accidentally jerking the bridle and causing the white mare to snap at him. "Oh, for Light's sake,  _Anduin_! No one tried to kill you. For one thing, it wasn't last night, it was this morning. And for another, it was  _me_. Trying to help you shave."

"It was a criminal," Ander said with the supreme certainty of the very drunk. "And I punched him."

"Well, that part's true, at least," Nathaniel muttered, rubbing the purple bruise on his cheekbone. "Please make sure he doesn't fall in?" he asked Callista, glancing at Ander wearily.

After another brief moment of waffling, Callista resolved her dilemma in favor of the two brothers. Obviously, they weren't officers, and so had nothing to do with her conscription. That meant she could be nice to them without breaking her resolution to ruin the lives of everyone responsible for it.

Ander tried to sling an arm around her shoulder, smiling in a way he clearly believed to be charming, and she sidestepped neatly. "Well, I promise not to  _push_  him," she said, but her lip twitched as she did.

Nathanial sighed, rolling his eyes at his brother. "Good enough for me." Turning, he clucked his tongue at the white mare as he led her away down the pier.

Ander waited for him to meld into the crowd surrounding  _The Fortitude_  before turning back to Callista, grabbing at a crate as the motion unsteadied him. "I always knew it was Nate," he confided smugly. "I just felt like punchin' him."

Callista tried not to laugh, but failed as it came out a choked snort. "I take it you two aren't paladins?"

"Us? Nah," Ander said, waving a leather-gloved hand vaguely. She wondered if Nathanial had managed to get him into all that armor while he was drunk, or if he'd simply been wearing it last night. "I bet Nate could've done it, but they would never have taken me. Didn't want to be separated." He peered more closely at Callista, making an effort to focus his gaze. Since she wasn't wearing any robes, arcane or demonic, over her tunic, his inspection probably didn't tell him much. "Are you our mage?" he asked, finally. "Didn't know we were getting one."

"Sort of…" Callista said evasively, cocking her head. People's reactions to discovering she was a warlock were always interesting. Actually, they were often so interesting that Callista tried to avoid this kind of admission entirely, but since she'd been hired specifically for her talents with demons, she didn't really see the point of that now. Ander didn't seem like the type to launch into an appalled diatribe about the evils of the Twisting Nether, but you could never tell. Especially with drunks.

"'Sort of?'" Ander said, creasing his brow as he tried to reason that out through the whiskey in his brain. "How are you 'sort of' a mage?"

She held out her hand, and emerald-green flame flared briefly in her palm in answer.

For a moment, Ander's eyes widened. Then he wrinkled his nose and staggered slightly as he tried to eye her critically sideways. " _You're_  the warlock? You don't look like one."

Callista snorted, not really offended and more unsurprised than anything, relieved his reaction wasn't worse. Most warlocks heard that sort of thing frequently – in all the common tales they were cast as villains, and were usually described as the storyteller's ideal of appropriately monstrous. It sometimes gave people some odd ideas. "What were you expecting? An orc?"

"Or a hag," Ander suggested cheerfully. His gaze traveled over her again, and he raised a brow lecherously at her as he grinned. "I think I'll get over it."

If he'd been sober that would've earned him at least a scornful look (Ander wasn't really her type, and Callista was neither shy nor delicate about deflecting unwanted attention), but since he was obviously very drunk, and not, on the whole, unlikeable, she chose to ignore his remark instead.

Ander seemed totally unaffected by her lack of interest. Actually, he shortly became distracted as a red-haired woman in low-cut green robes walked past with an armful of luggage, carrying the bags against her chest in a way that propped up her already remarkable bosom. If she noticed the man's leering, she didn't spare him a glare for it.

"Hey," Ander said once she'd passed, staring at Callista as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. "You can summon demons, riiiiight?"

"Yes, I have a succubus, and no, you won't like her as much as you think you will," Callista said, amused by his drunkenly eager expression. Letting Azlia loose on Ander would be wretchedly mean even by her standards.

"I think," Ander said, grinning wryly and wobbling as he tried to straighten himself against the crates, "that you're greatly overestimating my standards."

Actually, she was pretty sure she was exactly estimating his desire not to get stabbed in the neck, but Ander didn't seem to be in any frame of mind to take her word for it. Besides, the fact he'd been propositioning  _her_  not five minutes ago made his comment slightly less endearing than it might otherwise have been. "Do you ever get slapped in taverns?" Callista wondered, picturing what would happen if he made a similar remark to someone like Lady Devereux.

Ander blinked at her, his lopsided scruff adding to his incredulous expression. "How did you know?"

She probably would've enlightened him, but a female voice with a mild Ironforge brogue broke into the conversation. "Ander, are you pestering the lasses again?"

"Nah-uh!" Ander said. He managed, by executing an awkward hop-shuffle, to pivot around to face the lady dwarf without pitching onto his face. "She's not a lass, she's a  _warlock_ ," he said with the satisfaction of someone who's just made an unassailable point.

Callista, who really ought to have been offended by now, was so tickled by the juxtaposition of Ander's obliviously pleased look with the flicker of horror in the dwarf woman's eyes that she doubled over with laughter.

The dwarf, who appeared, by the finely-wrought silver and gold plate armor she wore, to be a paladin, relaxed slightly once it became apparent that Callista was not about to summon a doomguard onto the hapless Ander's head. She sized her up for a moment before seeming to conclude that she wasn't immediately a menace. "If you set fire to his head, lass, I daresay the Light would forgive you," she said dryly.

"Would  _not_!"

Callista had barely gathered enough breath to answer, but the sight of Ander's indignant, half-shaven face as he protested sent her into another gale of laughter.

The dwarf leaned against a massive warhammer that gleamed in the torchlight, waiting for her to settle herself. Clear green eyes winked from either side of her silver noseguard, and tightly braided red hair peeped from beneath her helm. "Wynda Threehammer," she said by way of introduction, once Callista managed to choke down her amusement long enough to look at her. "I can't say I care much for fiends, lass, but do your part and I daresay we'll all get on."

"Callista Dunhaven," the warlock said, sobering unpleasantly as the remark about doing her part reminded her why she was here, "and I don't think you have anything to worry about." Not past Auberdine, anyway, if she had any say in the matter.

Wynda nodded, apparently satisfied, and slung her hammer onto her armored shoulder as easily as if it were made of matchsticks. "Well, come along then. Nathanial sent me after you. Everyone else is ready to board."

Bowing to the unavoidable, Callista picked up her saddlebags, hefting one in each hand and looping the straps of her pack over her arm.

Ander pushed himself away from his pile of crates, weaving precariously along the edge of the pier until Wynda took pity on him and threw an arm around his waist. The dwarf was a head or two shorter than his brother, and Ander had to hunch slightly to lean on her shoulder. "You are exactly the wrong height for an armrest," he slurred, struggling to keep his grip on the smooth metal of her pauldron.

"Aye, but I'm still tall enough to box your ears, laddie, and don't you forget it," she said good-naturedly, steering him around a trio of bickering sailors.

Callista trailed a step behind them, disgruntled expression slowly creeping back onto her face. Wynda and the Redbranches may have been pleasant enough at first impression, but that did nothing to quell her ire at being saddled with a potentially deadly trip she wanted no part of.

Black seawater glimmered to her left, close below the level of the pier now that the tide was high. Sailors and passengers still thronged, dark shadows against  _The Fortitude_ 's graceful bulk, but the tenor of the hubbub had changed. She could hear more farewells than shouted orders among the noise.

Wynda led them towards a knot of people gathered out of the way near a pile of discarded fishing nets, half-dragging Ander along in her purposeful stride. Four pairs of eyes, two faintly glittering and two bright with their own glow, turned to regard them as they drew close.

Callista lagged back further at the sight, even as Ander let go of Wynda's shoulder long enough to wave his arm in something that, if she turned her head and squinted, might have resembled a salute. The Night Elf, for that's who the silvery pair of eyes belonged to, didn't faze her (Night Elves distrusted most mages, and all warlocks, and though Callista reflexively returned the dislike she wasn't afraid of them), but the large Draenei who stood behind her gave her pause.

If the universe had set itself to create a race completely anathema to Callista, it couldn't have done much better than Draenei. She considered them a diabolical fusion of her two least favorite things in the world – Eredar warlocks and the Holy Light – and as a result avoided them twice as hard as she did either of those things separately.

Or at least she tried to.

Aware that there was no escape this time, she shifted her packs on her shoulder and picked up her head assertively as she approached in Ander and Wynda's wake. Nathanial gave a half smile and waggled his fingers at her in greeting, while the cool light of the elven woman's gaze swept over her appraisingly. She must've seen something she didn't like (perhaps she could sense the enchantments on the cursed dagger that hung at Callista's hip), because her expression hardened quickly.

Callista narrowed her eyes briefly at her on principle, but was pleased to note that the Draenei, at least, seemed mostly uninterested in her. He watched the mortals before him with patient indifference, muscular tail waving slowly. The glow from the warhammer strapped to his back, its head comprised of a massive spar of purple crystal, waxed and waned gently.

"Everyone present and accounted for, Sir Aren," Wynda said, planting her hammer against the dock with a thud as she addressed the last man in the group.

Callista dropped her packs as she came to halt at her side, turning her gaze to Sir Aren with open hostility. The man was younger than she'd expected. Fair-haired and clean-shaven, he was clad in well-kept plate armor and handsome enough, she supposed, in the wholesome way she'd never much appreciated. Callista couldn't have pictured a more typical-looking paladin if she'd tried, and the fact did nothing to endear him to her.

If the venom in her stare took him aback, he didn't show it. His eyes rested on her for a moment before sweeping across the rest of the company. "For those of you I don't know, my name is Sir Aren Westwood. I command this venture by authority of the Argent Dawn." He paused, smiling slightly. "You all know what you enlisted for, so I won't bore you with repetition.  _The Fortitude_ sails at first light, and I request that you all gather on deck half a bell before then to be shown to your quarters. Until then, your time is your own."

Most of the party simply nodded or looked on attentively…except Ander.

"Sir, yes, sir," he said glibly, ignoring Wynda's elbow jabbing into his mailed side.

Nathanial groaned and clapped his palm over his eyes as Sir Aren studied his clearly whiskey-sodden brother with raised brow. "What I don't know about, Ander, I can't report for being unfit for duty. Are we clear?"

Ander had the grace to look at least approximately sheepish. "Sir, yes – ow!"

Wynda's second thrown elbow was somewhat more effective.

Callista found herself glad that she'd rejected her initial plan to show up drunk – she'd have been terribly upstaged.

Sir Aren seemed to be finished, and the others were focused on Ander with varying amounts of amusement and irritation, so she took the opportunity to pick up her bags again and move away a little down the pier. Luckily for the paladin, Callista didn't believe in airing her dirty laundry in public, but once she had a spare moment aboard ship she intended to hunt him down and make sure he understood exactly how she felt about his little adventure – and what she intended to do about it. Callista didn't like being blindsided. Or manipulated.

Until then, she was happy to stay out of the way and avoid a confrontation with either that Draenei or the Night Elf woman, who had noticed her departure and was watching her distrustfully. Put off by her stare, Callista twisted her magic into a seeking spell as she returned the look. Since there weren't any demons around the docks, it didn't do anything useful, but it did cause a wholly unnatural green glow to burn in the pupils of her eyes, prompting the Night Elf's lip to curl back a little from her white teeth.

Callista had never seen how the Kaldorei had earned their holier-than-thou attitude when it came to the younger races. Once they'd nearly destroyed Azeroth, and once they'd saved it – she didn't think one for two was a very spectacular record.

"Callista!"

The familiar voice forestalled any more brooding on the subject. Her expression lightened somewhat as she turned to see Tun's lopsided smile, still hazy with sleep.

"I thought I'd come see you off," he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes with his fist. The gnome never had been fond of mornings, and Callista was rather touched he'd made the effort. He glanced at something over her shoulder, did a swift double-take and made a face. "Making friends already?"

Callista twisted around to see the Night Elf's luminous silver eyes regarding them both with haughty disapproval.

"They don't like mages much either, you know," she said, looking back to Tun.

Tun crossed his arms skeptically. "Maybe if you just tried being  _nice_  to her…"

" _She_  glared at  _me_ ," Callista protested. True, her blatant display of fel magic hadn't helped matters, but it wasn't like she'd come here to win people over.

For a moment Tun looked like he was going to pursue that further, then he shook his head, rubbing his eyes again. "Just…be  _careful_ ," he said, for the hundredth time since two days ago.

Callista rolled her eyes affectionately, appreciating the concern but not sharing it. "I don't think the Argent Dawn will actually let her put an arrow through me."

"It's not the Dawn I'm worried about." He tilted his head at her reproachfully, green hair still tousled from sleep. "You're going to Felwood. We both know what sort of things live there."

"Demons?" Callista tried, arching a brow. She knew very well that the Shadow Council was probably closer to what he meant. Or at least, one particular member of it. She'd never told him that Nerothos had sought her out after their less than amicable parting outside the walls of Stormwind, and she never intended to – some things, her friend was happier not knowing.

"Yes," Tun muttered. " _Demons_."

"Don't worry so much," she said. "I don't intend to get that far, anyway."

"Good." He hesitated, frowning doubtfully. "Are you  _sure_  you don't want me to come with you?"

" _Yes_ ," Callista said firmly. He'd made this offer last night, too, and she'd said the same thing then. The last time she'd dragged him into one of her misadventures, he'd nearly been killed, and the hours before she'd realized he was alive had been some of the most harrowing of her life. She wouldn't put either of them through that again. Besides, Nissa would throttle her.

"I assumed you'd say that," he said with his sheepish smile, "but I thought I'd check. Just please promise me you won't go looking for trouble."

Callista interpreted this to mean "please don't lead those poor paladins straight to Jaedenar and leave them there." She'd be lying if she said the idea hadn't occurred to her at least briefly, but she doubted she'd have to resort to that. "I promise."

"And remember to write me."

"Paladin's honor," she said, quirking her lips and holding her hand up as though making a vow.

"Good," he said, satisfied. He yawned again, guttering torchlight throwing shadows across his face. "Now, don't miss your boat."

"Oh, go back to bed," she said fondly, rolling her shoulders to settle her packs more comfortably. "I'll see you in a fortnight, tops."

"I hope so." He laced his fingers together to stretch, movement revealing that he'd buttoned his outer robes slightly crookedly in his early-morning stupor. He noticed the same time she did, looking down at himself and wrinkling his nose before throwing his hands up dismissively. "Safe travels," he said.

She gave him a brief smile and wave before turning back towards the ship, sparing a glance for the grey light stealing above the horizon. The sea rippled the color of quicksilver, and the lanterns were beginning to look washed out. Soon it would be sunrise.

Most of her company was nowhere in sight, but Nathanial lingered on the pier in a pool of fading torchlight, saying farewell to a young woman with a sleepy child in her arms. He kissed them both goodbye (the woman looked unhappy but resigned) and then slung his pack over his shoulder, catching up to Callista as she reached  _The Fortitude_ 's weathered gangplank.

"Excited?" he asked, wistfulness in his smile as his gaze was drawn over her shoulder to the woman on the pier.

Callista laughed dryly, pulling a face at Tun, who waved as he turned to depart. The yells of sailors untying the hawsers that bound the ship to shore mingled with the easy lap of the bay against the wood.

"You have  _no_  idea."


	4. Confrontations

Aren Westwood was never sorry to leave the city.

Canvas snapped as the salty wind filled The Fortitude's sails, and the deck rolled beneath his feet as the ship skidded across the waves towards the lighthouse that marked the edge of the harbor.

He rested his gauntleted hands lightly on the rail, watching Stormwind's towers blush pink and orange as the sun rose in a blazing ball behind them. The bells of the Cathedral rang out across the water, greeting the dawn, while white seabirds wheeled above the quays.

It was a lovely city, high-walled and home to much that was beloved of the Light...but Stratholme had been lovely, once, too.

He turned away from the receding towers to watch a wildly-grinning goblin woman direct the last of his people to their quarters. Only Wynda, the Redbranch twins and the human woman were left on deck, all clutching the straps of various packs and looking more or less unsteady as the ship crested the larger waves near the harbor mouth.

The goblin woman giggled as the deck pitched again, jolting Ander into Nathanial. He clutched at his brother's shoulder as he fell, dragging them both down in a noisy heap of armor and luggage.

"Hee hee, poor little duckies, you'll get your sea legs soon enough," the goblin said, capering around their tangled forms in demonstration. She paused, cocking her head like an overgrown green sparrow, and prodded Ander in the ribs with a booted toe. "Unless you don't!"

The human woman stumbled and shot her an irritated look as the ship rolled again, finally giving up and sitting down on one of her packs.

Ander managed to claw his way up into a kneeling position, face an interesting shade of pasty green. "'M gonna throw up all over you," he muttered darkly, trying and failing to swivel his head to follow the goblin's cavorting.

Nathanial's eyes widened in alarm. "Ugh, Light, why," he muttered, hurrying to untangle his legs and scramble away from his brother on hands and knees.

Wynda eyed Ander doubtfully, shifting her warhammer on her shoulder. "Better get him to the side, lad, I don't think he's kidding."

She needn't have worried – the ship tilted again and Ander tumbled onto his feet, executing a stumbling run to the rail and hanging his head over it.

Aren tried not to pay too close attention to the sounds – or smells – wafting back from him on the breeze. Ander was a good soldier, but he liked his liquor almost as much as he hated sailing, and the collision of the two was never pleasant.

Nathanial picked his way over to the side with somewhat more decorum, arms spread a little to balance against the shifting of the deck. He grabbed onto the rail with one hand and pressed the other against the bridge of his nose, shaking his head at his brother with a long-suffering air.

Ander looked up and scowled at him between retches, expression made more ridiculous than threatening by the stubble that shadowed only half his jaw. "Don't you…judge me."

"I would never judge you," Nathanial said patiently, giving the words the sound of an oft-repeated refrain.

"Stay with your brother, lad, I'll take your packs," Wynda called. She hefted their bags onto her sturdy arms as she and the human woman turned to follow the goblin down the stairwell built into the bow side of the forecastle.

Ander slumped over the rail up to his armpits and groaned, seemingly oblivious to the glittering spray that soaked his hair and tabard.

"Careful you don't drop your gauntlets," Aren advised, clinging to the rail himself to keep from being unbalanced.

Ander lifted his head long enough to shoot him a glare of scornful misery. It was almost as nasty as that look the human woman – who he'd been told was his warlock – had given him on the docks earlier, but at least he knew why he deserved this one.

"The winter gear is in the hold and there should be fresh supplies waiting for us at Auberdine," Nathanial said, switching topics and covering his mouth as he yawned.

Aren nodded and stared out at the hazy line where sea met sky. Later, the summer sun would burn away the fog clinging to the waves, but for now the far distances vanished in a pearly blur. "Good, thank you. Could Luciel find more detailed maps?"

"Of Felwood? Not past that Tauren outpost. Bloodvenom, I think she called it," Nathanial said, frowning. He leaned his elbows on the rail as he peered over to check on his brother, mail clinking against the wood. "They never quite cleansed that place after the war, you know, and the Sentinels say it's getting worse. The elves' scouting parties are looking more and more like warbands, and sometimes they still don't come back."

Aren grimaced at this news, more resigned than surprised. "I suspected as much, but it never hurts to try." It had long been known that the Burning Legion kept a stronghold in the heart of the forest. They should have stamped it out years ago, but the mortal armies had been greatly weakened after Hyjal, and desperate alliances shattered quickly. Now the place had festered, and he had even heard rumors that dreadlords were consolidating power there, though he wasn't sure if he believed it. Legion sympathizers existed, even within the Alliance, and they'd been known to spread lies for their own purposes. Traitors were common enough now that the Argent Dawn had required noble references for the warlock accompanying them into Felwood – of all the applicants, only the Dunhaven woman had been vouched for.

"Why are we going into that Light-forsaken place, again?" Nathanial muttered.

Aren sighed. "You know why."

He waved a leather-gloved hand absently. "Yes, I know, that mage sent that letter." He planted his hand back on the rail and stared contemplatively into the frothy waves below. "But what I really want to know is, if they were being raided by demons, why in Uther's name would they run in to Felwood? They must've known that's where they were coming from."

Aren shrugged. They'd had this conversation several times since they'd been briefed for this assignment, and neither he nor Ander nor Wynda nor Luciel had managed to find an answer that satisfied everyone. If they had, maybe they wouldn't have been on this ship to begin with. "The letter was dated late fall. Maybe they couldn't get over the passes before the snows fell."

Nathanial made a noncommittal sound, clearly unconvinced.

A few paces away, Ander pulled his head up, curly hair plastered to his face by spray, and wiped his mouth. "I hate boats," he grumbled, swatting vengefully at the rail with his armored fist.

Blowing air out in a sigh, Nathanial rolled his eyes.

* * *

If she'd been in earshot of Ander's pronouncement, Callista would've seconded it wholeheartedly. Tripping against the side of the narrow stairwell, she cursed as the ship pitched again.

"Not long now, duckies," the goblin woman said, turning to grin back at them. Bright purple hair poked out from beneath the orange-striped bandana tied around her head, and the overall effect on top of her shark-like smile was bewildering. "Once we reach blue water we'll sail straight as an arrow, then no more stumbling and fumbling!"

"Just find us our quarters, you green menace," Wynda muttered wearily from behind Callista. The dwarf wasn't getting pitched around quite as much as she was, being both closer to the ground and weighted down with packs, but she was still beginning to look wan and a little seasick.

The goblin ignored her, cackling and prancing down the steps into the neatly-swept corridor beyond.

Callista followed clumsily, keeping a shoulder pressed against the wall for balance as she struggled with her packs. At least the boards had been sanded well enough not to pincushion her with splinters.

The corridor beyond was close and dark (the only light came from the stairwell behind her and one at its opposite end), but very clean. Red-painted doors opened off of it on both sides down its length, numbered in flaking gold paint that shimmered faintly in the shadows.

The goblin stopped in front of one and waved a ring that bristled with keys at it, yanking one off and unlocking the door before tossing it at Callista.

Since she didn't have a free hand, it hit her in the chest, and she narrowly managed to pin it there with her arm.

"Enjoy your stay, duckies!" the goblin cried, tossing open the door before whirling off down the corridor.

Callista jammed a foot against the hinge to keep it from slamming back shut, squeezing through and shrugging her packs onto the floor. She kept the door propped open for Wynda, who followed close behind laden with her own bags and the Redbranches' as well as her massive silver warhammer.

The dwarf discarded her burdens next to Callista's and plopped down on the bottom of the two tightly-blanketed bunks with a relieved sigh. Pulling off her helm, she shook her long red braids free as she inspected the intricately-graven metal. "I get the point of making an impression, but I can't help thinking we'd all sink like millstones in this lot."

Callista snorted, climbing up the ladder to the top bunk and bouncing on the mattress to test it. Wynda taking the bottom one suited her fine; she was far less likely to smack her head up here. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd underdressed." Out on the docks, she'd been the only one of their group not kitted out like she was marching onto a battlefield. Even Ander had managed it…somehow.

"Ach, don't worry your head, lass. You don't belong to the Dawn and no one expects it of you. Sir Aren just likes to keep up appearances in the city."

Appearances she was sure a warlock in full battle gear wouldn't have meshed with anyway. She didn't exactly look the part of a people's champion in robes blazoned with fel runes. Not that, she reminded herself with a twinge of irritation, she was any such thing or ever intended to be, no matter what delusion whoever had herded her into this seemed to be under.

Shaking her head, she leaned over her bed to peer out the porthole set into the adjacent bulkhead. The coastline curved away in a soft green smudge in the distance, and closer to hand all she could see was ocean. The porthole was close enough to the waterline that, during a storm, she imagined all she'd be able to see was seaweed and grey water. "Have you all served together long?" she asked, trying to get a better idea of what sort of crew she'd landed herself in.

Wynda tossed her helmet so it clattered to the floor near their packs, shortly joined by her steel gauntlets. "I've known the twins since they were wee lads, and Sir Aren's led our company since Lordaeron fell," she said, sounding glad for the excuse to talk (no doubt because it distracted her from the seasickness). "Luciel, the elf lass – though I daresay she's seen a sight more centuries than I ever will – joined nigh on a year ago now. Never seen the draenei fellow before, though Aren wouldn't take on anyone who wasn't an alright sort. Even if – "

She cut herself off, and Callista leaned further over the bed to look down at her. Since all she could see was her pauldrons and the top of her ruddy head, the view didn't tell her much, but she still thought she could guess how that sentence would end – probably with something like 'Even if he does look like a bloody demon.' If that was it, Callista could sympathize.

"I'm going back up top, if you want to come," she said, changing the subject out of tact. Sliding back onto the ladder, she jumped the last few rungs to the floor and pulled open the door, which had already swung shut with the movement of the ship.

"Thanks, lass, I think I will," Wynda said. She'd shed the last of her heavy armor, and now wore only the green and brown leathers she'd had on underneath. "Who'd have known a ship full of cargo would bounce around like a bloomin' cork."

Callista, who had begun to feel a bit queasy herself once they were below decks and out of sight of the horizon, made a sound of agreement. She braced a hand along the wall for balance as they picked their way back into the corridor, shutting the door behind them. Like all the passengers' quarters, their door was numbered in gold paint in all the languages of the Alliance: Common largest and on top, followed by Dwarven, Gnomish, Darnassian, and, last and least worn, the almost-familiar characters of Draenei. Clearly this ship had a diverse clientele.

Callista pushed the belt that held her sheathed dagger more comfortably onto her hips as she made for the bars of light slanting down through the stairwell at the end of the corridor, listening to Wynda's quiet grumbling at each new pitch of the deck. Maybe she'd linger up top until the nausea passed and then hunt down this Sir Aren. The faster she let him know what was going on aboard his ship, the better off –

The bars of light flickered out, plunging their end of the corridor into gloom, as the measured clop of hooves descended the stairs.

It had to be the draenei. Unsure where to go (the staircase was far too narrow to push her way up past him), Callista flattened herself against the planks of the wall to let him through, watching the darkened stairwell ambivalently.

Wynda followed suit at her side, though she managed a rather more friendly expression as the draenei ducked through the doorway and into the corridor. His armored form filled it nearly wall to wall, and the bony ridges that ran from his nose across the top of his head almost brushed the ceiling as he looked around in bemusement.

Callista resisted the urge to flatten herself further, distinctly uncomfortable; between the fleshy tendrils that snaked from his chin, the inhuman glow of his eyes, and the heavy goat-like hooves, he reminded her intensely of an eredar, and the memory was not pleasant.

The draenei smiled disarmingly as he noticed them, light from the stairwell streaming in behind him and making his armor shine like water. "Ah, my apologies. I did not see you there." His Common was good, but accented – and since Draenei was a distant descendent-tongue of Eredun, his thickly rolled r's did nothing to dispel Callista's impression of demon.

"Ach, it's no trouble," Wynda said, stepping away a little from the wall. Whatever doubts about the draenei she'd hinted at earlier (if that's truly what it had been), she showed no sign of them now. Smiling in return, she offered him her hand in a forthright gesture. "Wynda Threehammer, at your service. I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

The draenei had to lean down slightly to engulf her hand in his much larger blue one. "I am Vorthaal. Honored to make the acquaintance."

He turned his disconcertingly bright gaze to Callista, and she hoped her smile didn't look as forced as it felt. "Callista Dunhaven," she said, extending her hand because courtesy left her little choice.

He closed his hand around hers with surprising gentleness, shaking it once carefully before releasing her. "You are frightened," he said, tilting his head so the rings on the tendrils at his neck clinked against his breastplate.

"What? Of course not," she said, discomfited but laughing easily. "Just a little seasick." It wasn't really a lie, she told herself, because she wasn't really frightened of him. Just a little…unnerved.

"I have seen this look before," he said, studying her with what she might almost believe was compassion on his strange features. "You have known man'ari eredar."

Man'ari…the word existed in Eredun, too, though Callista suspected the connotations were different. "Yes, once," she said cautiously, because she couldn't see a reason to lie.

Wynda's head snapped around, mingled curiosity and surprise in her green eyes as Vorthaal's expression darkened.

"They were our kin once, but no longer," he rumbled, staring past her into some old memory. "Now they are so vile even the Light will not show them mercy." Some of the ferocity bled from him then, and he smiled, gentle once more. "But you are still here, and the man'ari is not, and this is good, yes?"

"Yes, this is good," Callista said, answering smile more genuine this time. The look of him still set all her nerves on edge, but if she pushed that aside he seemed to be a decent creature. Far kinder than she thought she'd have been, if she'd been chased across the worlds for millennia by her own demonic brethren.

"I am pleased to have met both of you," he said graciously.

"Aye, and so are we," Wynda replied. Her smile became somewhat wry as the deck heaved again. "I hope we're all just as pleased after a week stuck together on this floating ale cask."

Vorthaal looked just as unbalanced as the rest of them by the rolling of the ship, but unlike Callista and Wynda he could easily extend his arms to brace himself against both walls. "I admit I am finding the journey so far somewhat…disconcerting. The Exodar was a ship, but it did not sail on water and it did not…move…so."

"According to that green piece of work, we'll all get used to it," Wynda said, sounding skeptical as she wedged herself against a garishly-painted doorway.

"Ah, you mean the goblin woman," Vorthaal said, puzzlement flickering briefly over his face before it settled back into what Callista was beginning to think of as his usual good-natured look. "Yes, your world contains many fascinating creatures." His large blue brow lowered in a frown. "Though some are more strange than others. Why does she keep calling me a water fowl?"

Callista wrinkled her nose for a moment in confusion, then laughed. She supposed the goblin's insistence on calling all her passengers "duckie" could be mystifying to someone with a more formal grasp of Common. Actually, the warlock was a native speaker and still found it somewhat mystifying herself. "She calls us all that. I think she's just trying to be friendly."

"Deranged is more like it, if you ask me," Wynda muttered.

Vorthaal looked abashed, thick tail sweeping the air. "Then I fear I owe her apologies. Your people usually call each other animals as insults, yes? I am afraid I may have been…cold. She left in a hurry."

Wynda looked as though she was trying to choke back a laugh. "Aye, you may have startled her a bit."

"Then I should go make amends. I will see you both again soon, I am sure."

Callista and Wynda nodded politely, then pressed themselves back against the corridor wall as Vorthaal squeezed past them.

"She's probably wedged herself in the smallest corner of the bilge by now," Callista said under her breath, more amused than anything, as they climbed the stairs back up into the crisp morning air.

"Can't say I blame her," Wynda said in the same tone as she clomped up the steps behind her. "The lad's built like a brace of siege engines."

That was one way of putting it. The last creature Callista had known who'd looked so physically suited to combat had been most decidedly a demon.

She squinted as she emerged from the dim below decks into the sunlight. The breeze smelled of salt and ship's tar, and carried the sound of flapping canvas and the cries of the few seabirds that had followed them out this far from shore. Other passengers strolled along the deck watching the dolphins that frolicked in their foam-split wake, while sailors hollered cheerfully at each other and the people below from perches in the rigging.

"There's the lads," Wynda said, nudging her in the hip with her elbow.

Nathanial stood with his forearms on the rail, staring out into the hazy blue distance, while Ander lay on his back near his feet, splayed out with one arm thrown over his eyes. At least he looked less green than he had earlier.

Wynda called a greeting, and Callista followed at her heels. Some of her queasiness had dissipated in the stiff breeze, and her annoyance at being coerced into this venture warred with the exhilaration she always felt at the beginning of a journey. She still had no intention of following this Argent Dawn mission into Felwood, but a sea voyage as far as Auberdine might not be unpleasant.

Of course, that didn't mean, she thought, stepping over one of Ander's outstretched limbs to join Wynda and Nathanial at the rail, that Sir Aren (wherever he'd gotten to) was in any way off the hook he'd stuck himself on.

* * *

Happily oblivious to Callista's brooding, the man in question sat behind the heavy oak desk in his quarters (bolted to the deck, like all the rest of the furniture aboard), thumbing through the thick stack of parchment before him. Equipment requisitions, wages for his soldiers, correspondences from his superiors…all requiring his attention, until he regarded the daily delivery of mail with a resigned kind of foreboding. At least now that they were at sea, any further paperwork would have to await his arrival at Auberdine. (Assuming, of course, that nothing urgent enough to warrant teleportation cropped up.)

Dipping his quill into the inkwell nailed to the corner of the desk, he signed his name at the bottom of the first form and set it carefully aside so as not to smear it. The item beneath it was a report on Scourge activity in the Alterac foothills. They weren't going anywhere near Alterac; he skipped it to read later.

Licking his fingertip, he continued to page gamely through the stack. Only another twenty or so to go...

When the sharp knock sounded at his door, he welcomed the interruption. Pushing aside news of a renewed Legion assault near Honor Hold, he leaned back and stretched, stealing a glance at the foam-laced waves outside the portholes. "Come in," he said, straightening and rearranging himself into a more professional position with his hands folded on his desk.

The heavy door swung open, and a slim woman clad in a white tunic, sheathed dagger dangling from the leather belt at her waist, pushed into the room. She pressed the door closed so the movement of the ship wouldn't slam it, then turned to face him just as Aren recognized her as the woman who'd given him such a venomous look on the piers earlier. She wasn't glaring now, though the flintily appraising expression in her grey eyes was hardly friendlier.

"Can I help you?" he asked, smiling a little in hopes of thawing her gaze.

On later reflection, he wasn't sure what he'd expected her to say (some kind of greeting would probably have been traditional), but what came out of her mouth next most definitely wasn't it.

"I don't like being blackmailed," she said, in a conversational tone completely at odds with the frigid look she continued to skewer him with.

Blackmailed? Aren's brow creased as he tried to figure out if she'd really said what he thought she just did, and if so, why she was saying it to him. This was so far outside what he'd imagined as the realm of possible introductions that for a moment he just stared at her. "Excuse me?" he managed finally.

"Oh, don't look at me that way," she said irritably, stalking closer to his desk (the effect ruined only a little when she steadied herself as a larger than usual swell lifted them). "How in the Nether did you think this would turn out?"

"How what would turn out, soldier?" Aren asked, a hint of annoyance mingling with his confusion as he sat up more stiffly in his chair. Clearly there was some kind of misunderstanding here, but whatever grievance this woman thought she had, he was still her commander and would be treated as such. Especially because he hadn't even done…whatever it was.

"I think your last word nailed it," she said, narrowing her eyes as she crossed her arms deliberately at him from the other side of his desk.

The effect shouldn't have been intimidating – the woman wasn't very physically imposing, even when he had to tilt his head up to meet her gaze – but she had the mages' trick of looking at him like he might be a pile of horse dung in another few heartbeats.

"What?" he asked, more bewildered than ever and beginning to get angry now. He leaned forward a little over his scattered letters, resisting an urge to stand up to put himself on more equal footing with her. "Miss Dunhaven," he said in a carefully measured tone. "I understand that you're angry, but I can't possibly help you if don't explain what in Light's merciful name you're talking about."

That must finally have registered, because as he finished speaking the woman's expression shifted through an odd transformation: from scathing contempt to surprised realization to something just a little too scornful to be pity. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"No," Aren said, highly irked but relieved to finally be getting somewhere, "I don't." He waved a hand at the chair bolted to the floor next to her. "Now would you please sit down and explain yourself. Who's blackmailing you?"

"You are," she said infuriatingly, settling into the chair. Before he could berate her for being deliberately obscure (as well as insulting), some of her arrogance seemed to fade. She squeezed her eyes shut and held them that way a moment before opening them again and meeting his gaze frankly. "I'm not a mercenary. I didn't volunteer to be in your company, and I don't know anything about where you're going or why. An assassin threatened me until I promised to meet you at the docks."

"I – That's insane," Aren blurted, angrily shocked into speaking more harshly than he meant. "The Argent Dawn would never – "

"Maybe not, but someone did," she interrupted irritably. A few strands of blonde hair fell into her face as she cocked her head, and she brushed them away with quick fingers. "Who's backing this trip? Financially."

Aren wasn't sure. He was a soldier, and didn't delve that far into administrative matters. Even if he did, he wasn't about to be interrogated in his own quarters by a woman he'd never spoken to before. "I don't know. Just the Dawn," he said shortly.

She laughed dryly. "Somehow I doubt that." Her grey-eyed gaze was sharp as she focused it on his face, and he got the impression she was watching to see if he flinched. "You have no idea why anyone would be interested in your missing settlement? No rumors of lost fortunes, no possible heirs suddenly turned up in the House of Nobles?"

Nettled by her close inspection, Aren opened his mouth to snap a confirmation, then closed it abruptly again as the sudden veering of his own thoughts startled him.

He'd been certain that the woman was terribly mistaken, if not flat-out lying – this was a simple rescue mission, or, at very worst, a search for final confirmation that all the settlers of Jorn's Rest were dead. That was how his orders had painted this journey, and he had no reason to doubt that.

But…the village mage had kept a chronicle. He'd sent a copy back in the last shipment of mail to reach Stormwind, and he'd looked at it as part of his briefing. In one of the last entries, he'd mentioned that they'd found something of interest in the caves above the town and had begun a sort of mining project to excavate it. It was only a short note, and didn't even mention what it was that they'd found – it could've been a vein of ore, or some Night Elven ruin – but the woman's mention of lost fortunes had reminded him of it.

Not that, even if it meant anything (which he doubted), it made the idea of the Dawn being involved in anything like what she was accusing them of any less ridiculous.

"What? No!" Aren said, narrowing his eyes and hoping the Light would forgive him for the lie.

She cocked her head again, as though trying to decide if he was actually serious, then gave a sardonic snort. She looked like she was going to speak, then seemed to change her mind and said something else instead. "I don't mean to go with you past Auberdine, as I'm sure you can understand."

For a moment Aren was silent, gazing at the cracked wax seal of one of his letters as he tried to marshal his tangled thoughts into some kind of conclusion. "No, I'd imagine you wouldn't," he said finally, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. What else was there to say? He needed space to sort all of this out, and then…well, he didn't know what then. "You'll be missed, of course, but I won't have anyone forced to be here against their will."

It was a shame; she'd be difficult to replace. Her background said she was a former Academy mage, and those were scarce enough in Stormwind, let alone in a Night Elven city. They might have no choice but to go on without a warlock after all.

Her chair creaked as she shifted in it, and he glanced up in time to see some of the hostility bleed from her as she laid her sleeve on the desk near his papers. Silver-embroidered runes glimmered at its cuff – better enchantments than a mercenary who made the sort of wages this journey offered could've afforded. "Someone's after something," she said, voice less unkind than he might have expected. "And if you don't know what it is, then they're using you, too."

That had the uncomfortable ring of truth to it, but he still couldn't bring himself to believe she was right. "I can't imagine there's really some grand conspiracy going on here," Aren said with less conviction than he would've liked.

"Imagine whatever you want." She stood, resting her hands on the carved back of the chair as she watched him. "But if I were you, I'd be very sure what I was looking for before I went chasing it through Felwood."

More unpleasantly practical advice. On top of the blow she'd delivered by dropping her news so bluntly on him, Aren wasn't sure he was grateful for it. He stood as well, shaking his head. "Miss Dunhaven."

"Callista's fine," she said, with a twitch of her lip he might have taken for apologetic on someone less prickly. Her features, he noticed now, were actually attractive, though they seemed perpetually set in a half-amused look that he wasn't sure he appreciated. It improved when she wasn't staring at him like he was an idiot.

"Callista, then. I'd be grateful if you didn't share what you've told me with anyone else. I don't want rumors getting out of hand before I find out the truth of things."

She nodded. "I assumed as much. I haven't said anything, and don't intend to."

"Good. Thank you." He hesitated a moment, then offered her his hand across the desk. "I'm sorry…if we've somehow caused you trouble."

One side of her mouth lifted wryly at that. "Oh, I suspect I was probably in trouble anyway," she said, taking his hand and shaking it briefly. "You're just the newest manifestation."

He gave a wan smile, watching as she let herself out and shut the door quietly behind her. Feeling like he'd just suffered the conversational equivalent of a sucker punch, he sat back down, sweeping his unread parchment to one side and squeezing his eyes shut.

* * *

Callista leaned her back against the door after she'd closed it, letting out a long breath. Obviously she'd been around fiends (demonic and otherwise) for far too long. She'd entered that room expecting to find malicious intent, or at least indifference elevated so far as to be indistinguishable from it, and instead all she'd found was well-meaning ignorance.

How annoying.

That had been at least partly why she'd been so horrible to the poor man in the beginning – malice she could deal with, provided it was at least marginally intelligent; ignorance couldn't help her at all.

She walked down the corridor a bit, trailing her fingers along the smooth wooden planks of the wall and the raised molding that edged the doorways as much out of thoughtfulness as to help her balance. She didn't believe for a moment that Sir Aren didn't know more than what he'd told her (the man was a terrible liar, clearly he had some idea why outside parties might be interested in this voyage) but she was sure he was innocent so far as her involvement was concerned. No one could fake the look of dumbstruck affront he'd worn when she'd accused the Argent Dawn of blackmail.

She snorted slightly at the memory.

Once she'd gotten over her irritation at finding a fellow pawn instead of a gimlet-eyed schemer, she'd actually begun to feel sorry for him, and the advice she'd given was genuine. Felwood was treacherous enough without worrying about the intent of your own allies. Even the best-planned sorties had a way of falling apart there.

Steadier on her feet now, she took the stairs to the main deck two at a time with a vague intention of finding someone to ask where the galley was. She'd never known a paladin with a head for intrigue, and it looked like poor Sir Aren and his cohort were shaping up to be no different. If they had any sense, they'd realize they were in over their heads and sail this ship straight back to Stormwind, but, being paladins, they probably had some ridiculous notion of duty holding them all to the (probably suicidal) course. It was almost enough to stir a pang of guilt in her for planning to abandon them all at Auberdine…

…but they'd made their choices, and Callista refused to end up sorry for hers.

 


	5. Collision

Two days out of port, the fog crept in.

Callista sat at the end of the galley table nearest the porthole, picking at the crumbs of her breakfast and watching pearly skeins of mist drift and fray behind the glass. She'd been up on deck earlier (though not for very long; the fog was cold and clammy as drowned fingers and its touch made her shudder), and even the lantern dangling from the end of the bowsprit hadn't been visible as anything more than a damp smear of light. Hardly any wonder the ship had slowed. If the weather didn't clear, it could add days to their journey, but at least the new cautious pace had done wonders for Ander's seasickness. He sat two places down and across from Callista, wolfing down biscuits and arguing with his brother.

"I'm telling you," he said around a mouthful of crumbs, "there are  _too_!"

"Are too what?" asked Callista, who had lost the thread of the conversation but become curious when the shouting started.

Ander paused his predatory eyeing of the last biscuit long enough to look at her. "Are too sharks in the canals."

"The  _Stormwind_  canals?" she asked, wrinkling her nose skeptically.

"See? I told you," Nathanial said, taking her unconvinced expression as evidence. "They're too small! And besides, have you seen that water? They'd probably all be poisoned."

"Or mutate," Ander said, looking disgruntled as Wynda took advantage of his distraction to swipe the last biscuit. "Into canal sharks."

Wynda laughed, breaking her spoils in half and slathering each fluffy white side with butter. "Unless they've all been magicked into catfish fry, I think someone's been having you on, lad."

"Well, you never know what kind of potions the Academy's been dumping in there…" Callista said, straight-faced. She amused herself for a moment by imagining Tun's look of indignation if he ever heard her slandering the mages that way.

"Exactly," Ander said, gazing speculatively at the steaming plate of biscuits halfway down the table between Vorthaal and Luciel. "Besides, Willie Lightforge said he saw one. The assassins' guilds use them to dispose of the bodies." He paused, brow creasing. "Or was it the warlock cabal? The assassins' guilds may have  _been_  the warlock cabal, he was a bit vague on that…"

Wynda snorted. "Is he sure the sharks were in the canal and not the bottom of his flagon?"

"The warlock cabal?" Callista asked, trying and failing to keep her mouth from twitching. Rumors about a powerful Legion-aligned secret society of warlocks never quite seemed to die in Stormwind, especially when times were troubled, and she always found the juxtaposition of that image with the petty, squabbling bunch in the basement of The Slaughtered Lamb to be funny. If the fishwives and tavernkeeps ever learned the truth about their sinister conspirators, they'd all be run out of town with howls of laughter instead of pitchforks.

"Yes, you know," Ander said, waving his butter knife vaguely. "Demonic rituals, human sacrifice, replacing heads of the nobility with shape-shifted demons…" He paused and grinned rakishly at her (she noticed both halves of his face were shaved evenly today). "What's the matter, they didn't invite you?"

She snickered, catching her water glass as a sudden roll of the ship unbalanced it. "Evidently not. Should I be offended?"

"Well, I guess it makes more sense than canal sharks," Nathanial said with a fond roll of his eyes.

"Not by much," Callista disagreed, prodding idly at a bead of liquid on the table's polished surface. "Oh, there are some who try to court the Legion, but they're more like street thugs than a real conspiracy. They're not even very good arcanists – otherwise they'd be enslaving demons instead of begging them for favors."

"You've met Legion sympathizers?" Ander asked, gazing at her with a decent man's morbid curiosity about those who chose to be wicked. "What were they thinking?"

Callista had actually met a lot worse than sympathizers, but she wasn't about to admit that. She'd also run into the tamer sort of traitor in Stormwind from time to time, though it was sometimes difficult to tell the blustering bullies from the genuine article. Every now and then, however, someone would encounter an otherwise poor warlock who'd gotten hold of an artifact far beyond his own power, and those probably did have a Legion connection somewhere. One of them had actually accosted her a few years ago when she'd been on her way to Elwynn with a cartload of alchemical supplies from her father's shop. Jhormug had chased the poor fool halfway to Duskwood while Callista convulsed with laughter on the seat, and it was probably good he'd kept running after he'd thrown his amulet back at the pursuing demon, because her control had been much less sure in those days. She liked to think the incident had taught the aspiring thief a lesson, but probably he'd just gone back for a better amulet.

"They  _weren't_  thinking. Nothing but foolish arrogance." Luciel answered from the other end of the table before Callista had a chance to speak. The glow in her silver eyes was harder than usual, and one of her long ears twitched disdainfully. Since their first meeting on the docks, she and Callista had ignored each other coldly but cordially – which had suited the warlock fine – but evidently their conversation was heading down a path she couldn't suffer in silence.

Callista shrugged. "Or desperation or ambition or flat-out malice." Her mouth twisted wryly. "It's only foolish if they regret their half of the bargain."

"Aye, but since demons never keep theirs, I daresay most of them wind up fools," Wynda said, flicking her green eyes casually between Callista and Luciel as though trying to determine if one of them was going to escalate the argument.

"This is true," Vorthaal said. He perched gingerly on the bench across from the night elf, which, though built of sturdy oak, still groaned a little under his weight. "There is no honor left in man'ari, and there can be no bartering without trust, yes?"

Callista cocked her head. That was true, as far as it went – there was no honor in demons. But there was cold logic and malicious intelligence, at least in some of them, enough to allow a small amount of honesty in service to a greater mischief. "If every promise the Legion ever made was lies, they'd run out of mortal followers very quickly."

Luciel smiled humorlessly, the movement disturbing the small dark tattoos like leopard spots that patterned her cheeks. "Only if you believe the mortal races will ever run out of fools."

Something about that reply raised Callista's hackles – probably it was the way she referred to the "the mortal races" as though her own people were anything better. Callista, who was up on her demon lore, disagreed. "Yes, well, maybe if  _we_  ripped the world in half we could flush out all of ours, too."

Luciel's silvery eyes tightened at the corners, and Ander looked back and forth between the two women as though expecting (and perhaps hoping for) a fight. "My people learned from our folly, and if yours are half as wise as you believe then they will as well, without repeating it."

"Who said anything about wisdom?" Callista asked, getting an unwholesome sense of satisfaction out of the confrontation. "My argument was that we're  _all_  – "

"Alright, lass, we take your point," Wynda interrupted evenly. She'd obviously decided that the warlock had no interest in smoothing things over (quite the opposite, in fact), and it was best to separate the two before things got even nastier. "I'm going up top to see if Sir Aren could use any help. Care to lend me a hand?"

It was clear what she was doing, but since they were all stuck on this ship together for at least another week or two, Callista grudgingly allowed that it might not be a bad idea to follow her. Though Sir Aren probably wouldn't appreciate it much – she hadn't seen him since their discussion in his quarters, and she suspected he was avoiding her. Not that she really blamed him. "Alright. I'll bite."

Wynda sighed. "You're a piece of work, and no mistake," she muttered.

Callista collected her glass and plate and dropped them in the basket set aside for that purpose as she followed Wynda up the stairs to the main deck, pulling the hood of her cloak over her hair.

"I wouldn't bait Luciel, lass," Wynda remarked quietly as they climbed. "She was there at Hyjal, and if you don't think she's earned your tolerance for that then consider how fast she could get an arrow through your eye if you test her."

Callista was used to being scolded (it was more or less the basis of her friendship with Tun, after all), but this time she didn't think she deserved it. Well, not much, anyway. "The elves aren't the only people to ever fight demons. And I don't like being talked down at."

Wynda snorted, lifting her own hood as they left the shelter of the stairwell and walked into the murky fog. Her cloak beaded almost instantly with little pearls of moisture. "Maybe if you'd been talking about fighting them instead of bargaining with them you wouldn't have gotten her back up."

"I'll remember not to have any more theoretical arguments in front of people who can't separate conversation from reality, then," she said irritably. The fact that, for her, the discussion hadn't really been theoretical at all was irrelevant. No one else knew that, and it wasn't a detail she intended to share.

"Ach, Light save you both," Wynda said as she threw her hands up wearily.

Memories stirred by the argument, Callista's mind travelled back to the incident in question as she trudged through the clinging mist, the sound of their boots on the planks echoing strangely. It wasn't as though she could help what others (demons or not) chose to offer her. And besides, she'd done the sensible,  _right_  thing in the end.

Well, sort of, anyway.

* * *

" _If that's a promise, I'll believe it even less," she'd said._

_The liquid trilling of night birds mingled with the murmur of the bay around the dock they stood on. Fireflies glimmered beneath the jungle eaves, and moonlight glinted silver off the rippling seawater and the filigree on Nerothos' armor alike. Callista was drunk; everyone in Booty Bay was probably drunk, except the dreadlord who stood before her, leathery wings half-spread and eyes burning like twin chips of felfire in the dark._

_Nerothos didn't answer her challenge in words. Instead he tightened his clawed hand around her wrist (her breath hissed through her teeth at the shadowy burn of fel magic against her pulse, and alarm had little to do with it) and tilted his head to watch with an edged smile as her gaze was drawn to the dark blood that dripped slowly from his other palm. Patient as always – but patience was a virtue cheaply come by, for an immortal._

_It was the same quality he offered her…for a price. Not so cheap after all, then. She watched the blood pooling in his hand, moonlight or some unnatural inner power lending it a faint greenish sheen, and weighed her mortal life against the chance to live forever._

_Time in exchange for freedom…but Callista was still young, even by the standards of her own short-lived people, and more time hadn't yet become so appealing that she'd forfeit everything else she had._

_She tried to twist her hand as she mused, studying the contrast of his sharp black claws against her skin, but he held her fast with his thumb pressed into her palm._

" _What in the Twisting Nether did you think I'd say to this?" she asked, looking up at him with vague irritation. (A quarter bottle of liquor earlier it probably would've been more than vague, but she'd always been a lazy drunk.) "The answer is no, by the way."_

_Nerothos clucked his tongue at her in mock reproach, stretching his wide black wings idly. "How tiresomely predictable."_

_She snorted scornfully at that. "Oh, really now. Why would you waste your time here if you knew I'd tell you to go to hell?" He hadn't let go of her wrist (probably because he'd mistaken her earlier inspection for an escape attempt and was holding on out of wicked perversity), but since he wasn't hurting her she decided she didn't care. Any real effort to get away would involve felfire (or something worse), and he hadn't provoked her quite that far. Yet._

_Green flame burst suddenly around his other hand, dazzling her eyes after so long in the dark, and she wrinkled her nose as the fire devoured the blood cupped in his palm. Burning demon blood smelled terrible, but she'd learned that a long time ago. The claw marks he'd scored in his own skin had already healed. "Come now, that is hardly what you said," he replied, pointed teeth white in his sardonic smile._

" _It isn't?" she said, showing her own teeth in a mirroring expression. "Terrible oversight. I'd say it now, but I'd hate to aggravate your tediously predictable existence..."_

" _That is hardly what_ I  _said."_

_Callista narrowed her eyes, struck by the sudden notion that they weren't having the same conversation at all. She'd begun to regret her decision to set her bottle of rum down by her feet; with her hand pinned that way she couldn't reach it, and the demon seemed very unlikely to let her go anytime soon. Doubly unlikely if he knew what she wanted to be let go for. Well, maybe they could compromise. She tipped her chin down at the brown glass bottle. "What do I have to say to get you to hand me that?"_

_Nerothos cocked his horned head, seeming to consider that for a moment, then dismissed the question with a soft snarl._

_The sound was inhuman enough that it penetrated her pleasant haze of alcohol (she'd actually drunk quite a lot before putting the bottle down) and caused her a brief and very belated shiver of alarm. Yes, this was Nerothos, and yes, he'd been even more than usually tolerant (which alone should've made her suspicious), but he was still a dreadlord, a Legion demon, and she was probably more than drunk enough already._

_He must've sensed her sudden uncertainty because he laughed, voice a velvety purr completely at odds with the way his wings flared subtly, capitalizing on his physical edge. "Consider my offer to be…open-ended. But remember on whose side mortality lays, warlock. Your position can only become more untenable with time – and a bargain's terms never improved with disadvantage."_

_It was an interesting blend of persuasion and intimidation…but she was too floored by his words to notice the deepened shadows as his wings curled around her. She eyed him sideways, torn between amazement, irritation and disbelief, before she decided that yes, he was actually serious – he really_ did _believe she'd come crawling back to Jaedenar one day. Unholy Twisting Nether, he was the most arrogant creature alive. The idea was so ridiculous that she forgot her earlier hesitation and laughed. "Oh, demon," she said, looking up at him with mixed amusement and scorn. "They'll be building cathedrals on Argus first."_

" _Will they?" He smiled, the viciously amused one he wore when he thought he'd cornered something. "That's a poor limitation, warlock – unless you mean to accept."_

_The arm he held was beginning to tire – Nerothos was a great deal larger than she was, and the height he'd chosen was uncomfortable. Probably on purpose, the wretched creature. But whoever flinched first lost, of course, so she simply took a half step nearer to shift the angle and arranged her shoulders more agreeably. "You mean they've built them there already? Now that seems out of character…"_

" _Hardly." He pulled her wrist almost imperceptibly upward, renewing the burn in her fatigued muscles – she suspected he'd done this before, miserable fiend. He smiled, though whether at his next words or her irritation she couldn't be sure. "Many powers demand monuments of their thralls…and your Light is the_ least _of them."_

_Before she could decide if this finally warranted setting his hand on fire, the pressure on her wrist increased and then vanished – he released her arm and flickered into invisibility in the same instant, nothing but black jungle and a star-swept ribbon of beach in his place._

_Callista blinked, nonplussed. Well, that was…abrupt. Disgruntled by the fact he'd gotten the last word after all, she sat down on the weathered planks of the dock next to her rum bottle and dangled a foot into the warm bay. Her forearm itched; she scratched absently at it, felt liquid smear beneath her fingers and glanced down at it in surprise._

_Blood oozed slowly from three long gouges in the back of her wrist. As soon as she noticed them they began to sting. Twisting Nether, the demon's claws were so sharp she hadn't even felt him do that._

_Narrowing her eyes and cursing in Jaedenar's general direction, she leaned over the moon-drenched water to look for fish. Or turtles or crabs or whatever other hapless creature she might steal the life from to mend herself. Not that the scratches were serious, or even that they hurt – but they were unmistakably claw marks, and she didn't relish the idea of explaining them to her friends in the morning._

_The water was so pristine she could see the seaweed that rippled at the bottom, obscured only by gentle phosphorescence where her foot disturbed it, and it didn't take long to discover that nothing alive stirred anywhere._

_Nothing animal, anyway…_

_A soft snore interrupted the night sounds of the shore, and she glanced over at the dozing man still mired in Nerothos' sleep spell. For a moment she thought about it, then rolled her eyes at her own nagging conscience. The man had already been knocked out by a dreadlord, he probably didn't deserve injury on top of insult. Maybe she could blame the scratches on dock splinters._

_Hissing at the burn, she dipped her bleeding arm into the seawater with ill-tempered resignation. If there was any justice in the world, the demon would fly into a nest of wyverns._

On the mist-shrouded deck of  _The Fortitude_ , Callista wrinkled her nose in annoyance at the memory and rubbed at the back of her wrist. Alright, so perhaps her refusal hadn't been completely ironclad. But at least she hadn't said  _yes_.

* * *

Aren paced slowly along the deserted deck, each creak of a wooden spar and whisper of canvas made loud and hollow by the mist. Damp clung to everything, weighing down the silver and black cloak draped over his shoulders.

Captain Verner said fogs like this had always been common along the coast of old Lordaeron they now sailed, but Aren wasn't sure he believed it. There was an oily heaviness to its touch that had nothing to do with moisture, as though the cursed and tormented land to their east had exhaled, loosing its decayed breath across the waves. He could see why all the passengers (and even most of the ship's crew) remained below decks and out of the way of it.

He would be there himself, if he hadn't felt such a need to pace. The walls of his quarters had seemed too close this morning, and the quiet groan of the wood against the fathomless dark water they sailed had driven him up into the fog.

Now he was regretting it. He rested his ungauntleted hands against the starboard rail, smearing beads of cold moisture, and stared out into the milky whorls of mist.

Lordaeron was out there somewhere. Brill, Stratholme, Tarren Mill, Andorhal – names that had once marked cities, then battles, then restless charnel houses. Images came with the names – a ragged train of refugees, dragging a wake of trampled possessions and the crumpled bodies of those who had faltered for the last time (to burn them would have been merciful, but there was little enough mercy left even for the living); a blue and white banner, crushed into blood and ichor-streaked mud; shattered crates of grain from which corruption rose like rotted smoke. Worst of all were the faces – frightened and confused in the beginning, then, towards the end and far more terribly, slack with hopelessness.

Aren shook his head sharply, banishing his thoughts. He shouldn't have come up here. This fog reeked of death, and all of the memories it stirred were unkind. The present was murky enough without disturbing old ghosts.

Feminine voices echoed eerily through the mist, reminding him of the source of that murkiness. Wynda approached with Callista in tow; he frowned resignedly as he turned to face the sound of their footsteps. Mulling over the warlock's words had bled the shock from them but not the uncertainty, and even though he knew another conversation with her might help him sort things out he'd been reluctant to initiate it. He'd met personalities like hers before, and not just in other warlocks. She had the self-possessed arrogance of anyone whose power was obtained through raw force of will, and conflicts with such people were always unpleasant for anyone who didn't enjoy pitched arguments. Aren was one such, and he hadn't meant to speak with her again until he was sure what he wanted from the conversation.

He still wasn't sure, but he'd never been one to flinch in the face of potential discomfort and he didn't now.

"Muradin's beard, lad, you picked an awful day for a stroll," Wynda said as the mist parted to reveal her solid form. Her red braids looked particularly vibrant against the grey weather.

"Couldn't sit still," Aren said with a halfhearted shrug. "My quarters were even drearier."

"Unless they moved the officers' quarters to the brig, I'm not sure I believe that," Callista said, cocking an eye at the chill mist creeping over the rail.

Aren relaxed slightly at this opening remark. Based on her previous behavior, he'd expected, at best, barely-veiled contempt, but if she was willing to look past their last encounter then so was he. "Requisition papers," he said, offering a slight smile. "The fog doesn't require signatures in triplicate."

"Don't give those ink-nosed scribes ideas, lad," Wynda grumbled good-naturedly.

The dwarf had never been fond of the Stormwind bureaucracy, and she'd ranted to him on several occasions about how matters that would've been settled over a round of beer in Ironforge seemed to require half the officer corps and a forest's worth of parchment in the human city. Aren didn't think it was quite that bad, but he'd never much liked official paperwork either. Another reason it was good to be leaving the city behind, even with the recent…complications.

"What brings you two out in this?" he asked, raising a brow at the way they both seemed cloaked and hooded to avoid any touch of the mist.

The warlock flicked a wry sideways glance at Wynda, as though interested to see how she'd answer.

"Things were getting a wee bit uncomfortable inside for us, too," Wynda said dryly.

" _I_  felt fine," Callista said with a devilish look. Her cloak was grey, only a few shades darker than the fog that shrouded them, and produced the unnerving illusion of her figure blurring wraith-like at the edges.

Wynda rolled her eyes tolerantly. "I guess if you didn't like playing with fire, you wouldn't be what you are, would you, lass?"

"Probably not," Callista agreed.

Aren glanced doubtfully between the two women, trying to decide if he wanted elaboration on this exchange or if he was happier letting it be. Clearly the warlock had caused some kind of mischief…but Wynda was extremely capable and seemed to have the situation well in hand.

Before he could choose his next words, he found himself jarred to his knees by a concussion that shuddered through the planks beneath him, wrenching a protesting groan from the wood.

"Twisting Nether!" Callista swore from where she now rested on her (mercifully fabric-cushioned) elbows.

A babble of voices rose in hollow echoes from the other side of the ship, though the ghostly curtains of fog hid whatever had agitated them.

"We've hit something," Wynda said grimly. She climbed to her feet, smoothing her cloak back down over the soldier's leathers she never seemed to remove.

"Maybe we've just run aground," Aren said, though he realized it couldn't be true even as he said it. The ship rolled gently with the swells as he pulled himself up using the rail; whatever had caused the crash, they were still floating free.

Callista gazed in the direction of the sounds as she rubbed gingerly at one of her sore elbows. "Whatever it is, better hope it hasn't holed us. There's nothing to our east but plague."

An unpleasant thought (the warlock seemed to have a bottomless reservoir of them), but if it was true there was little they could do about it. Aren shook his head. "If we've hit another ship there might be wounded. Follow me, both of you."

White streamers of mist morphed and twisted around him as he set off at a run, not waiting to hear their acknowledgement. Individual voices rose over the commotion as he approached – one was the stentorian bellow of Captain Verner issuing orders to come away from the side, but far too many of the rest were simply screams.

A low hiss and a muttered prayer issued from behind him as a capricious thinning of the fog revealed what they'd struck. Masts like black spears towered overhead, tattered sails hanging limply from them. They had indeed hit another vessel, but not a sleek clipper like  _The Fortitude;_ this ship was a huge round-sided cargo hauler, and her dark bulkhead reared several feet over their rail.

Most of the more curious passengers had already been herded back from the point of impact (luckily neither ship had been sailing very fast across the breezeless sea, and there appeared to be little damage to either) while a handful of sailors pushed frantically at the strange vessel's side with long poles in an effort to shove away. Several of their fellows stood close behind, but instead of poles they brandished swords.

This was odd, but Aren was distracted from thinking on it further as he noticed the blood on the deck. Two lacerated bodies, one in the uniform of their own crew, lay tumbled close to each other. Crushed somehow in the collision, Aren guessed. It was evident from the large pool of blood soaking into the planks around them and the way the sailors gave them a wide berth that both were already past mortal help. "Is anyone hurt?" he cried, scanning the stunned-looking passengers for wounds.

"Paladin!"

He turned at Captain Verner's distinctive growl. A long scar puckered his face from temple to chin, drawing his mouth on that side up into a permanent leer. "Arm yourself and get your soldiers up here! Clear anyone who can't fight into the hold."

The captain's words and dire tone jolted him. Thrust from thoughts of concern, his mind locked into the clear, cold place that allowed him to command others while the world fell to blood and pieces around him. "Arm ourselves against what?" he asked tersely.

"Ship's full of corpses," Verner snapped, eyes pinned to the misty bulkhead looming above them, "except they aren't dead. Picker didn't chew his own face off."

Aren's eyes flicked involuntarily back to the two bodies. Upon closer inspection, one had been torn almost to shreds, gore hanging in ragged strings from what he had thought were splinter but now realized were claw marks, while the other's head dangled from its neck by a single strip of gristle. This one's flesh had already turned sickly grey, and the exposed bones at its joints gave it the look of a corpse long dead.

Bile rose in the back of his throat. "Wynda, get the others."

"Right away," she said, already shouldering her way through the crowd between her and the stairwell. "Below with you if you can't wield a blade!" she roared.

It didn't look like clearing the deck would be a problem; most of the gawkers had begun pushing to flee the moment they realized what lurked aboard the other ship. Unfortunately, the dense crowd packed into the forecastle stairs would keep the rest of Aren's company from joining them quickly.

A jumble of rotted faces appeared over the rail of the other ship and triggered a wave of screams from those struggling to escape. Too mindless to climb the barrier, the undead things simply battered through it, shattering the rail under the force of their own decayed flesh and plunging over the side.

The ships were far enough apart that most simply splashed into the sea, a macabre waterfall of tumbling corpses, but the ones in front had gained enough momentum from the weight of their fellows to plummet onto  _The Fortitude_ 's deck. They hit the planks with wet slaps like sacks of spoiled meat.

The sailors manning the poles scattered as one of the ghouls landed nearly on top of them, lunging for the slowest with a ravaged snarl. Its fleshless claws snagged the cuff of his boot and dragged him down onto the deck.

The man's alarmed scream turned pained as the corpse began shredding the flesh and muscle of his calf, clawing its way up towards his torso. His fellows whirled on the creature (it had been a woman, once, long hair hanging lank around her exposed cheekbones and bloodied mouth) and attacked its neck and joints with swords.

Aren whipped his head around, looking futilely for something to use as a weapon. Two other undead lurched up from the deck only to be set upon by angry sailors, quickly driven down and hacked into ichor-soaked chunks. The fog was still thick, however, and he couldn't see if more had landed further down the ship, if the screams that wavered from it were only fear or something worse.

His gaze fell again on the wounded sailor near the rail, crouched over now by two of his comrades. The ghoul that had savaged him was still, finally, but one of its clawed hands had lodged deep in his thigh and they struggled to remove it. As they tugged it free, a stream of bright red blood came with it, pulsing with each beat of the man's heart.

Uttering a soft curse, Aren abandoned his search for a weapon and ran to the man's side. He dropped to his knees next to one of his companions, who was trying to staunch the bleeding with a strip of cloth but looked up suspiciously as he approached.

"I serve the Light," he said abruptly by way of explanation. The man grunted and moved aside as Aren laid his hands gently on the torn and bleeding flesh of the sailor's leg and closed his eyes, reaching out in wordless supplication. The response was immediate – a flood of warm and vast comfort, as though the universe was aware of their tiny flickers of existence and gently acknowledged its children – and he didn't need to open his eyes to sense the gilded glow sealing the wound beneath his touch.

He felt regret as the sensation receded, but when he opened his eyes the gash had healed without a scar, though his own hands remained sticky with blood. The sailor breathed shallowly, still unconscious from shock and blood loss, but he would live.

Aren climbed steadily to his feet, feeling the clean tiredness that healing always brought but already looking around for other fallen. Without a weapon, he couldn't easily destroy the undead, but at least he could mend some of what they'd harmed.

He nodded and managed a half-smile at the sailor's companions' muttered thanks. Blood smeared the misty deck in garish patches, though there were mercifully few bodies that had belonged to the living. Splashes from the hideous rain of corpses slowly faded to silence as  _The Fortitude_  backed away at an angle, and whether it was because of some lingering foul awareness in the ghouls or because they'd all thrown themselves overboard he couldn't tell.

Against his own instincts, Aren's eyes traveled upward to the tattered flag that hung from the ship's highest mast. He'd already known with dreadful certainty what he would see, but the stylized L on its white field still tore fresh pain from wounds he'd thought long ago scarred-over.

A trader-ship of Lordaeron. When word of the Scourge reached the coastal towns, every able vessel had sailed, packed to the rails with frightened refugees. Ignorant in their panic, so many of them carried the very curse they fled in their own holds, escaping the plague-scarred cities only to be consumed on empty seas. If he were to open the belly of that poor ruined ship, he knew what he'd find: crates of grain, all bearing the merchant seal of Andorhal.

The slaughter on deck had failed to shake his calm, but he couldn't repress a shudder as mists curled about the frayed pennant of Lordaeron. That had been his home, once. Those were  _his_  people. The ones he'd sworn to protect, now trapped in this deathless nightmare. His vows hadn't been enough to save them, and the Light…the Light paid no heed to their suffering, and now it turned its face from the tortured husks they'd become.

_The Fortitude_  swung its sails, finally gaining enough sea-room to wheel to run before the weak breeze as the ghostly ship drew back more swiftly, a raw black wound in the ragged fog. Sailors with swords drawn milled along the deck, but the battle appeared to be over. A grey-cloaked figure caught his gaze – Callista, appearing out of the mist beside the last stragglers heading below deck, keeping a watchful eye on the swirling haze at their backs. She looked paler than he'd seen her before, but otherwise unruffled. The tactical part of his mind took note of the fact she hadn't fled, while the part still reeling at the sight of the frayed Lordaeron banner was pleased to see her for other reasons.

Interpreting his stare as inquiry, she called out across the passengers between them. "The other end's clear! I don't think anyone's hurt, but the captain wants a head count to be sure."

He nodded stiffly in acknowledgement. She must've seen something suspicious in his expression because her eyes narrowed, and she spared one last glance over her shoulder before leaving her charges and approaching him.

She looked him over, unreadable gaze lingering for a moment on the blood that smeared his hands before she met his eyes again and seemed to hesitate. "Are you…"

"Can you burn it?" he asked, careful to keep the brittleness from his voice.

There was no question what 'it' was. She betrayed her surprise only by the fact she watched him for a split second longer before turning to gauge the distance to the receding vessel. It loomed a ship's-length away across the dark swells, twice the size of  _The Fortitude_ and wrapped in streaming mist.

"Yes," she said.

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut briefly. "Then do it."

Once more she hesitated, though this time she searched his face as though it was a puzzle she couldn't understand and wasn't sure she trusted because of it. (And why shouldn't she be confused. Who would balk at ordering the destruction of a shipful of ravenous corpses?) "Not that it matters," she said, head still cocked in the closest to uncertainty he'd yet seen from her, "but I would've done it anyway."

Aren made no comment to that, only watched as she pushed back her hood and walked to the rail. He'd seen mages work their spells before, and if he'd expected the warlock's casting to be any different he would've been disappointed. With her back towards him, he couldn't see the arcane gestures she made with her hands, but glimmering runes coalesced at her feet and rotated slowly. Power bloomed around her – shadowy enough to make him ill, and yet perversely, sickeningly appealing to the secret flawed places in his own heart – and she hissed something in a language he couldn't understand as a coruscating pillar of flame burst up from the deck of the dead ship.

Not the red glare of magefire, but the greenish-white of demon-flame; it blazed up from around the tallest black mast, searing it to ash faster than should have been possible and then roiling outwards in a blinding emerald wave. Once it consumed the entire top deck the inferno began to spin, heat roaring at its heart as it kept pace with the bright runes whirling about the warlock's feet. There was nothing subtle about this destruction; wood and canvas so sodden with mist should never have burned, and the howl of the firestorm was the raw shriek of power.

Drawn to the sight, Aren found himself standing at the warlock's side with his knuckles clenched white around the rail, heat tightening the skin of his face. It was fitting, in a way – demons' meddling had caused the suffering of the once-people on that ship, and it was a demon's spell that was ending it, albeit one wielded by a mortal woman.

A low admiring whistle from behind let him know that the rest of his company had finally arrived.

Ander clucked his tongue at Callista with teasing disapproval, fire-glare staining his chainmail tunic a flickering green. "Leave some for me next time, oh lady not-a-mage, or at least burn them  _before_ I squeeze into all this armor…"

Still channeling her spell, the warlock's only reply was an amused snort.

"That's enough, lad," Wynda said sharply. "People died here today."

Chastened, Ander didn't speak again.

The demonfire still raged, striking glittering reflections from the grey sea and making the fog shimmer like emeralds, but the dead ship had already burned down to the waterline and begun to sink.

Callista lowered her arms as the runes wreathing her boots winked out, breathing faster and face sheened with sweat from her exertions but looking satisfied with her spellwork.

Aren watched silently as the sea rushed in to fill the charred hulk, dragging it down, still burning with unnatural fury, into the deeps. The flaming chunks of wreckage that swirled lazily in its wake lit the water like green torches.

His hands tightened on the rail, short nails digging into the wood, as he saw what those torches illuminated. Not all of the living corpses had sunk or burned with the ship. Some had decayed enough that putrid gasses buoyed their bodies and now they floated among the waves, the empty ghostlight of their eyes searing into him like an accusation.

"The ones in the water, too," he said, voice still carefully controlled.

"Belay that, girl."

Both Aren and Callista turned at Captain Verner's gruff order, the warlock's head already tilting in a gesture that had more of challenge than greeting in it.

"They're a hazard to navigation," Aren said, meeting the captain's grizzled stare as frankly as he could. "It would be irresponsible to leave them as a danger to other ships."

"They might be at that," Verner agreed. He jerked his scarred chin at Callista with an unmoved expression. "But your… _mage_ …there playing with fire not two fathoms off the port side is a hazard to  _my_ ship. Leave it be, knight. The sharks won't like them any more than you do."

"Even scavengers won't touch Scourge," Callista pointed out, pulling her hood over her fog-darkened hair and eyeing him coolly. The slight to her abilities obviously hadn't endeared him to her, enough to overcome whatever lingering hostility she might feel for Aren. "Leave enough of them, and this stretch of ocean will be nothing but a floating plagueland."

"The…mage…speaks true," Luciel spoke up unexpectedly, musical voice cold. A three-bladed glaive with a crescent moon at its hub rested in her hand, and until she moved she seemed strangely of a piece with the mist and shadows. "Albeit for selfish reasons."

Callista wrinkled her nose at this, as though unsure whether to be pleased at the support or annoyed at the jab.

Luciel looked no happier about her own words than the captain did, elegant mouth set in a hard line, but she continued anyway. "The ghouls are a blight, and it's the charge of all creatures to defend the balance of this world. We should destroy them."

"This is not a debate. My first concern is for my ship and my crew," Verner said. He jerked a calloused thumb at the black water, corpses and burning flotsam still bobbing in it. "If you don't like it, start swimming."

Callista's lip curled, expression leaving no doubt as to who she really thought would be swimming if it came to that.

Aren didn't miss the way the hands of the surrounding sailors strayed closer to their sword hilts at their captain's words. He shook his head; this had gone far enough. He didn't like to leave those people – monsters – drifting that way, but it wasn't worth the price of a mutiny. Though he technically outranked Verner, a ship's captain's word at sea was even weightier than scripture.

"That won't be necessary," he said, casting a meaningful look first at Luciel and then Callista. "We accept your judgment, captain."

"Thank you, soldier." He turned, wiping black ichor from his twin cutlasses onto his pants and barking orders at his men. "Genner and Lightfist! Get below and check the hull for breaches. Spinner! Check names against the passenger manifest, make sure no one's wounded or gone missing. The rest of you…clear those bodies off my deck."

Tension dissipated as the sailors scurried to do their captain's bidding. Footsteps and shouts – industrious, this time, rather than terrified – echoed back through the fog as the business of resuming their journey to Auberdine got under way.

Aren returned Captain Verner's acknowledging nod as he strode off to reassure the rattled passengers who had begun poking their heads up the forecastle stairs. Though his back was to the rail, the paladin could still feel the ravenous empty-eyed gazes of the ghouls in the water boring into his back, and it took all his willpower (or was it only cowardice?) not to turn to face them.

Nathanial, clad in a chainmail shirt dull with condensation (in his hurry, he hadn't bothered with a tabard), leaned over to look at the floating bodies and grimaced. "Maybe once we've pulled away farther…"

"It won't matter," Callista said, resting her hands back on the rail before making a face and wiping her damp palms on her cloak. "There wasn't any danger anyway, and that captain is canny enough to know it. But he also knows that sailors are superstitious…"

"And demons aboard ship are bad luck," Aren finished flatly. Had he been alone he would've rubbed his temples, but he restrained himself in front of the men and women of his command. Unfair though he knew it was, he felt a surge of bitter annoyance towards the warlock. "Couldn't you have used something less…conspicuous?"

Wynda shot him a look, mixed reproach and concern, at the sharpness in his tone.

He'd expected the warlock to turn on him the same sneer she'd shown Captain Verner, and had already prepared an answer for the insubordination, but instead she merely shrugged.

"That ship was drenched in mist and seawater. Magefire is conjured by magic, but it's still natural flame. A mage who'd chosen that path might've had the skill to burn water that way…but you don't have a mage."

Her tone throughout this response had been clinical, almost bland, but the last line was edged. No, he didn't have a mage. Instead he had Callista, and the woman was no happier about the substitution than he was. She'd only done what he'd asked of her.

"Point noted," he said, which was the closest to apology he could manage without revealing more than he wanted to.

The others still watched, calmly waiting for orders, and if they noticed anything strange about this exchange it didn't show on their faces. All except Wynda, who'd known him longer than any of them and had the expression of a woman torn between laying a hand on his shoulder and scolding him for his apparent foolish surprise at a warlock wielding fel magic.

Maybe, if he'd let her, she could've found the words to shake him from his bleakness, but the need for her talents was greater elsewhere. Old guilt was nothing new to Aren, and he would push the shipful of tormented dead from his mind the same as he'd done to so many things since Stratholme burned.

"Wynda. Vorthaal." The draenei nodded respectfully at his name, the menace a creature of such size and alien appearance should've radiated undone entirely by the kindness in his ridged face. "Offer your aid to the crew taking care of the passengers. The rest of you are free to go."

"Alright, lad," Wynda said, offering him one last knowing look before swinging her gilt-inscribed hammer onto her shoulder and following Vorthaal.

Nathanial frowned suspiciously as he noticed his brother falling into step beside the large draenei. "Where are  _you_  going?"

With a single black curl escaping his leather helm above one eye, Ander's face was the picture of surprised innocence. "I thought I could help. You know, hold bandages, assess wounds, comfort frightened maidens…"

Nathanial rolled his eyes, already starting after his brother. "'Comfort' isn't another word for 'proposition,' Ander."

"Maybe not in your dictionary…"

"You're my brother. We had the  _same_  dictionary!"

They were still bickering as they trailed Wynda and Vorthaal down the forecastle stairs and out of sight.

Feeling the weight of controlling his expression lift now that they'd gone, Aren turned again to stare out over the water, ignoring Callista as she stood doing much the same a few paces away. They sailed parallel to the wreckage now, and though most of it had burned itself out a few green flames still flickered like beacons. The mist curled and thickened, smearing the fire into bright blurs, but he still thought he could pick out the white pinpricks of ghostlight where ghouls crested the swells. No longer able to harm, the sight of those ravaged bodies drifting with the waves, terribly, eternally aware and yet helpless, held as much pathos as horror. It would have been easier to look away, but he and all his order had failed the people those abominations still should have been, and the least he owed them was to witness.

He might've watched until the cold mist swallowed up them all, but he was suddenly disconcerted to notice that Callista had stopped looking out over the water and was now studying his face. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she followed the line of his gaze. Something about her particular air of annoyance gave him the uncomfortable feeling that she'd guessed far too much of his thoughts (and how hard could it have been, with them written all over his unguarded expression) and found them wholly not to her taste.

"They're not going to claw up the hull and bite you, paladin."

Too startled to be really stung, he shot her his filthiest glare in return and was annoyed when she only looked satisfied.

 


	6. Shades of Truth

Callista met Sir Aren's bewildered glare unrepentantly before pushing off from the rail, turning her back on both the bloated corpses and the green embers still flickering among the waves.

Brooding had always irritated her, and the more blameless the one doing it the more it irked her. Oh, she could guess easily enough the reasons the paladin thought he had – the man spoke with the soft-edged accent of the northern kingdoms and was several years older than she, old enough to have either fought a desperate retreat during the Scourge invasion or to feel guilt for his luck at dwelling abroad during his homeland's annihilation. It didn't take an archmage to figure out why he might stare at a shipful of Lordaeron dead with that hollowness in his eyes.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she threaded her way past sailors heaving rotten bodies unceremoniously over the side.

Not that that excused him martyring himself over having survived. This was why she couldn't stand paladins; anyone who felt the need to borrow someone else's guilt that way clearly hadn't done enough living of his own. While not nearly on the level of the demons and human cultists who'd created the plague, Callista had still done a number of unpleasant things she didn't really regret, and the idea that there might be someone, somewhere, feeling sorry over them when she herself felt no such thing deeply annoyed her in a way she couldn't explain. She'd never liked sharing, even her mistakes.

A tattered cloak of fog still hung chill over the ship, and the sweat that beaded her face from both the effort of her conjuration and its fierce heat added another layer of damp. She wanted to go inside to dry off, but the gaggle of passengers they'd shooed below deck during the battle had regained its collective nerve and now clogged up the stairwell in whispering knots.

Instead she moved off to the side, leaning against the smooth wooden planks of the forecastle wall and pulling her hands into her sleeves for warmth. All of the bodies had been cleared from the ship, either chucked overboard or wrapped in sailcloth for proper burial at sea, and the only lingering reminders of the battle were the blood and black ichor stains on the deck. As she watched, a pair of sailors arrived with a tub of soapy water they sloshed over the mess, washing most of it away and attacking the rest with coarse brushes.

She was only half surprised when Sir Aren turned from his contemplation of the drifting undead and strode in her direction. The guilt that had burdened his features earlier had lifted, replaced by weary resolve, and Callista stopped leaning against the wall and stood up straighter at his approach. Probably he'd found something to say about her earlier remark. If he was looking for an apology, he'd do better to talk to someone else.

He stopped in front of her, a red smear on his cheek where he must have inadvertently scratched with his blood-coated fingers.

There was an awkward pause as she waited for him to speak first.

"I just wanted to…thank you," he said finally.

Callista, who had expected an attempt at scolding, was thrown off-guard. She flicked her gaze over his face, searching for sarcasm, but of course she found none. "For what?" she asked, suspicious anyway.

"For not hesitating when I asked you to burn that ship. I'm sorry if I was short with you afterwards. I didn't expect…" He trailed off, spreading his bloody hands, and there was bitter self-mockery in the way his mouth twitched.

Callista had no trouble finishing his sentence. He didn't expect to run into the hideous ghouls of his own countrymen so far from Lordaeron's ruins, and he didn't expect that captain to take such umbrage at their method of destruction. She swatted away a brief glimmer of pity, glad there were few things in her own past that could ambush her that way.

"I'm not sensitive," she said with a shrug. "And I meant what I said. I would've done it anyway."

It was true – although necromancy and demonic summoning both fell under the broad heading of fel magic, Callista had little tolerance for perverters of death or their macabre creations. A warlock's power could be turned against mortals, but its real aim was mastery over demons. Necromancy, on the other hand…necromancy was a weapon against the uncorrupted living, and those who would turn mortal kin into rotting slaves were the basest of traitors. Callista hated them with the passion of someone intimate with enslavement herself.

"Even so," Sir Aren said with a faint smile.

There was another pause before he spoke again. Passengers chattered around them, but the fog blurred the voices into a grey murmur and threw a veil across faces, making their crowded surroundings strangely lonely.

"I've been thinking about what you said. About how you were…why you're here."

Looking at him for the first time without irritation or adrenaline to color her vision, she could see that the years had not been kind to the paladin. More lines creased the corners of his light brown eyes than a man so young ought to have earned, and there was a weariness in them that she suspected was permanent.

"And?" she said.

"And I want you to look at something."

Callista cocked her head. "What kind of something?"

His slight smile broadened at her obvious interest. "A journal. Follow me."

Curiosity piqued, she fell into step beside him as he strode through the restless crowd around the forecastle stairs. Some of the bolder passengers had moved to the rail, leaning over it to point out the lingering patches of green flame to their companions, and Callista made a face, glad there'd been few witnesses to the spell that had lit them. She wasn't ashamed of what she was, but she could do without people edging around her as though she might sprout horns at any moment.

She followed Sir Aren down the steps and through the dim corridor that led to his quarters, their progress aided in no small part by the way other passengers flinched out of the way at the sight of the paladin's bloodied hands.

He unlocked the door and held it open chivalrously for her to enter before him. As he did, he seemed to notice the clotted smears for the first time and frowned, nudging the door shut again with his boot.

"Not yours?" Callista asked, arching a brow at the blood.

"What? No," he said, glancing around until his gaze fell on a basin of water next to a washcloth and straight razor. "I was helping the wounded. I didn't realize how much had stuck."

"Blood will do that," Callista remarked.

He shot her a strange look, but didn't comment. Instead he moved to the basin and began scrubbing the gore from his hands, pink ribbons swirling into the water. "The papers I wanted you to see are on my desk. The black folder with the silver embossing."

She crossed the short distance to the desk and shrugged her damp cloak onto the back of the chair before it, the same chair she'd taken on her last (much less amicable) visit to Sir Aren's quarters. Lanterns hung on hooks on either side of the porthole behind the desk, providing far better illumination than the fog-shrouded sun.

She settled into the chair, appreciating the warm friendliness of the light after the debacle in the mist above decks, and pulled the folder he'd indicated closer. It was a sturdy leather item, and the silver embossing traced out the rayed sun of the Argent Dawn in its center, with another, more obscure sigil in the upper right corner. Callista's eyes widened as she saw it. This was part of Sir Aren's own briefing, information provided to senior officers – it wasn't forbidden for him to share it with members of his command, but she was surprised he'd show it to her.

Hands clean and dried now, Sir Aren slid into the chair on the other side of the desk and smiled wryly at her expression. "Yes, I know you're not of the Dawn. I'm bending the rules. Are you surprised?"

She was, actually, but when she thought about it she supposed it made sense. Something was wrong with this mission he'd been assigned, and they were the only two aboard this ship who might figure out what. Maybe he didn't care much for her, but clearly he took his duty to his own soldiers seriously, and it was worth dealing with a warlock if he could better protect them from whatever hidden dangers lay ahead.

She looked up from the folder and mirrored his smile with an impish twist. "Not unpleasantly. It's good for you. People who follow the rules lead uninteresting lives."

"Some would consider that a blessing." His eyes were very nearly amber in the lamplight, the guardedness cloaked now with good humor.

The paladin was, she decided, rather nice-looking when he smiled. If you liked the wounded type. Callista preferred arrogant and slightly dangerous herself, but she was surprised there'd been no fluttery priestesses waving him off at the pier. She snorted, opening the folder and inspecting the first water-stained piece of parchment within. "Unless they're uninteresting because they're so short…"

"I suppose if you want to be cynical about it…"

"I generally do." The document beneath her fingers was thick with a precise script, and a faint breath of the arcane rose from the ink. A mage's text, to be sure. The first entry was dated the spring of five years ago. "Whose records are these?"

"A mage named Michael Fairbanks. He accompanied the settlers of Jorn's Rest as chronicler and, I suppose, protection, of sorts. Every six months he'd send copies of his logs back to Stormwind for inclusion in the royal annals, but about two and a half years ago, they just…stopped. There's been no contact with anyone in the village since."

Intrigued despite herself, Callista thumbed through the carefully-penned pages. There weren't actually very many, for almost three years of records. "Is this all of it?"

Sir Aren shook his head. "Just a selection. Fairbanks wrote tomes once they arrived, most of it mundane – births, deaths, crops planted and so on. These are the entries we thought were significant."

She nodded, flipping back to the first page and shifting to settle herself more comfortably. It was a pity they hadn't included the rest of the volume, if only for contrast. Still, that wasn't the only thing that seemed odd about this. "Two and a half years? It took that long for Stormwind to realize something was wrong?"

Sir Aren's gaze flicked away from hers for a moment, and something like anger clouded his face before quickly clearing. "Stormwind's governers have many concerns. I'm sure they alerted us as soon as their suspicions were raised."

Callista repressed a cynical snort. A diplomatic way of saying that this group of settlers wasn't important enough for anyone with authority to care what happened to them. Until now. That alone might be worth examining.

Sir Aren stood, pushing in his chair and resting his hands on the back of it. "I'm going to go check on the others. Take as long as you like."

Already absorbed in the battered text before her, she only vaguely noted the sound of the door closing behind him.

* * *

_Three weeks past the festival of Noblegarden_

_Two years since the Battle of Mount Hyjal_

_Edward left us today, returning with the crew of_ Sarren's Tears  _to Stormwind. Truth be told, I'm surprised he made it this far. His arguments with his brother had become more vicious of late, and I don't think anyone was sorry to see him go._

_Before he left, he told us running so far was cowardice, that we should settle in Elwynn and try to rejoin normal life. Maybe it_ is _cowardice, but no one who wasn't there for that last hellish flight through the passes should get to judge. Once you've seen one city rise in terror around you, all of them are suspect._

_There are no human cities north of Hyjal. Maybe this will be better._

Sarren's Tears  _put us ashore on the coast not far east of Winterfall Village. The beach was too rocky to allow a proper landing, so we and all our supplies (including the horses) were rowed out on skiffs. The water was far colder than might be expected for this latitude, and snow shrouded the beach above the tideline. There must be enchantment involved in this, but if so, it's magic so ancient and sunk into the land around us that I can sense nothing. A strange place, Winterspring. I would study it longer, but we need to cross the valley before the fiercest snows close the passes to the west._

_We hope to reach the village of Winterfall before dark. We'll rest there a day before continuing on to Everlook, where we can resupply before entering the true wilderness._

The next full entry was dated a week later.

_We traded our horses in Everlook for a shaggy breed of oxen inured to the cold. Katrin seems to think we came off worse in the exchange, but such are the hazards of dealing with the goblin cartels. The beasts seem well-suited to our journey, at least. We hitched them in teams of two to the wagons carrying our supplies and those few children too young to walk, ten in all, and so far they have pulled steadily and without complaint despite the biting wind._

_Winterspring is beautiful, but it's a beauty without warmth, in every sense of the word. Ice sheathes the landscape in glittering crystal, and even the shadows are crisp and hard. I've heard it never thaws, certainly never long enough to plant crops – without the perpetual flow of supplies through the goblin trade routes, I do not believe mortal settlement would be possible in this place. Perhaps I'll bring that up the next time Father Calahan begins another of his interminable sermons on the evils of gold-lust._

_I am writing this from our camp three days out of Everlook. The mountains that are our destination loom high over the horizon, even at night, their snowy heights sliver with moonlight. The northern flanks face Moonglade and are supposed to be more temperate. Or so I dearly hope, since that is where we mean to settle. Far enough away from any other human town to satisfy even Rodolfus, who's been even more dour than usual since his brother left us at the coast._

_It was generous of the night elves to grant us leave to settle on their borders, though I'm not foolish enough to think that sympathy was their only motivation. The forest to the west – called Felwood now, and whatever its original Darnassian name might have been is unknown to me – suffered greatly in the battle at Mount Hyjal and is now feared to be irrevocably corrupt. It pleases the Sentinels, I think, that our settlement should provide another outpost to keep watch on the evil festering there. Or, should that fail, an anvil to blunt any future attack, since the demons would surely seek to destroy us before moving on the uncorrupted forests._

_But then, perhaps I am too cynical._

Several entries seemed to be missing between the last and the one that followed.

_The trail has begun to climb towards the passes, and as the forest around us thaws, our journey has, conversely, only become more dangerous. The river ice is rotten, and broke beneath two of our wagons today as we tried to cross. No one was killed, luckily, but several sacks of seed washed overboard and sank before they could be recovered. We'll feel the loss when it comes time to plant. There were a number of injuries, too, the worst of which occurred when Marshall James' finger was crushed between the two wagons as the current swept them together. The damage proved too severe for Father Calahan to mend, and he was forced to amputate it at the first digit._

_Alas, the loss only makes him typical among our party. Nearly fifty men and women, former citizens of Lordaeron all, and the assortment of old wounds among us is a study in life's resiliency in the face of violence. Or I suppose it would be, if one tended towards optimism. One might also call it a lesson in life's indifference towards the living. I am disinclined to choose between them, myself._

_However one finds meaning in the fact, we are a broken, damaged lot, and not all our wounds are borne on the outside. Tamara Swift vanished on a hunting expedition two days past, and there is some doubt as to whether it was an accident, though none has been so bold as to voice the accusation against her brother publicly. The blood between those two soured even before they joined this expedition. Some bitter feud they never spoke of, and the truth of it seems less likely to out now than ever. There isn't enough evidence to say for sure that Martin Swift did anything untoward that day, but his step has lightened significantly since we moved on from the site of his sister's disappearance. In response, Rodolfus has ordered that no one leave sight of the caravan in groups of less than three, but that will do little to kill the suspicions that have sprung up like foul weeds._

_Game trails cross our path more frequently now, and at night the wolves howl._

Callista wrinkled her nose, turning the page and smoothing it down with her palm. Twisting Nether, what a nasty bunch. Judging by what she'd read so far, that whole village seemed to be a nothing but a collection of half-mad war victims who hated each other – was it really any surprise they'd all vanished? They'd probably murdered themselves. Of course, her perception could be skewed by which passages the Argent Dawn had chosen to include in this briefing, and she wished again that they'd provided the whole journal.

The next entry was dated four days past the fall equinox, two and a half years since the last piece of narrative. By Callista's reckoning, that meant it was probably one of the last logs to make it back to Stormwind before all contact was lost. The final items in what appeared to be a list of crops preceded it – 200 bushels of corn and 100 of squash.

_The last of the harvest was brought in today on the Mercer's farm. The soil here is fertile, rich with loam from the recently-cleared forest, and we will have plenty of food to last through the winter. A festival was held today to celebrate, and I am writing this by the light of the sparks drifting from the bonfire in the village square. Dancers whirl at the edge of the flame's glow, too flushed to feel the chill, and though there's no reason I shouldn't be among them my heart isn't in it._

_I've had as much part in the founding of this village as anyone here – clearing land, tilling fields, warding livestock against wild beasts – but I've yet to feel as though I've truly come home. Though I've known my fellow villagers for almost three years now, I still often feel like a stranger, and even the sun-dappled forest that surrounds us sometimes seems unfriendly to my eyes._

_Yes, even the forest. Sometimes especially that. Ever since my...misadventure. The product of depressed and overwrought nerves, probably, but alarming all the same. Being unable to explain it by alchemy or magic, I hate to ascribe to it too much importance, but for the sake of completeness I will recount it here anyway._

_Not two days ago, now, I'd been wandering the forest in search of autumn herbs, in a clearing not far from the village bounds. I'd been poking through the brush, content (or what passes for it these days), when a sudden terror descended on me. There was no cause or reason; my wild glances revealed that I was still alone in the clearing. I couldn't gather my magic, couldn't even flee; it was as though some vast and malevolent intelligence, passive in slumber, had suddenly cracked one depthless eye and looked_ right at me. _Not just looked, but saw, and I was flattened beneath the force of its malice._

_Then, just as quickly as the feeling had come upon me, it was gone. The clearing was bright with sunlight and birdsong and unchanged._

_A wholly irrational fear, and I have no means of explaining it except through some error in my own senses._

_The desire to leave and try again elsewhere is growing within me. I'd have left this summer, I think, when the passes north were clear, but I feel I still owe these people too much to abandon them. There are no other mages here, after all, and may not be for some time._

_My mind travels back to Edward's last words to us on that frozen shore, when he called us all cowards. Maybe we were. Maybe I still am. I've been running so long – ever since that first neighbor's corpse shambled into the street more than half a decade past – that I'm not sure I remember what it feels like to stand still. The flaw, I suspect, is not the in village of Jorn's Rest, but in me, which is why I will stay. I want a life that's more than a long series of flights with no sanctuary. If I can't find it here, I have little hope for elsewhere._

Eight weeks later.

_6 days past Winter Veil_

_Nights are cold and dark, and the days are hardly better. A blizzard has raged around the village for three days now, drifting snow up higher than the shuttered windows. Only the dimmest sliver of bluish light filters through them even at midday. The wind has much less trouble finding entrance, much to my discomfort, and shrieks through every crack. I spent much of the first day stuffing those I could find with rags._

_It's been over a week since I last saw a human face besides my own. Rodolfus, standing near the altar of our small cathedral. Smiling, not unkindly. I'd confided in him, finally, all that I felt. That terrible moment in the woods, and all the lesser ones since. The conviction that whatever this place had belonged to before we claimed it – even if it was only to itself – did not forgive our intrusion. Some of the more barbaric races believe that even trees and stones have spirits, and can rise up in anger against their enemies. Maybe it's true, and maybe we are the enemy._

_Rodolfus listened with careful patience, as is his wont, but in the end was unmoved. No one else has these feelings, and even all the animals are content enough. "Michael, my friend," he said with a brotherly hand on my shoulder, "I think you're lonely."_

_Lonely._

_Yes, I suppose I am._

_8 days past Winter Veil_

_The storm has stopped, but the village still lies buried. Or at least I imagine it does. When I tried the door this morning it opened onto a solid wall of snow, white and sparkling in the light of my small candle. I could excavate myself if I chose, of course, send the whole drift glittering skywards with the most trivial of spells…but I do not choose._

_I like it in here, I have decided. No neighbors hardly better than strangers, no sinister eyes to bludgeon me with their attention. With the wind still, it's quiet. I think I will stay._

_11 days past Winter Veil_

_They dug me out today. I resented this less than I might have because the food was beginning to run short. The snow lies in drifts up to the village eaves, and with the thick blanket of it still on the rooftops Jorn's Rest resembles nothing so much as a circle of white barrows. Restless barrows, from which the inhabitants have emerged to pester me with questions. They want to know why I didn't dig myself out, why no one saw me for days before the storm. They're cross, and my indifference made them crosser. I don't like it out there, the sky stares down at me like a cruel blue eye and I won't answer their questions. I would rather go back inside. I'm beginning to think they suspect_ I  _conjured that blizzard, which is ridiculous, of course. I don't have the power. I never have, not even before –_

_Not even before._

_I evaded them eventually, however. I am writing this from back inside my cabin. I sealed the door and windows with a shell of enchanted ice, and let's see them dig me out of that! Ha. Rodolfus wanted me to go with them up into the mountains. One of the hunting parties found something there, after the storm, and they said it was strange._

_Not strange enough for me. Or rather, too strange. I won't go with them. It's worse in the mountains, always worse. Like that time in forest. Not for us. Not for_

The narrative cut off in the middle of the sentence. Not in a scrawl, as though the author had been dragged away by some horror summoned by his own words, but neatly, as though he'd simply lost interest. Which, considering the fact that the mage had clearly become deranged, Callista did not think unlikely.

She shut the chronicle, fanning the animal scent of leather into the air, and narrowed her eyes as she digested what she'd just read. The mage was completely mad, obviously. Had there been anything strange in his writings beyond that?

The lanterns hung on either side of the porthole creaked and swayed gently with the ship, nudging the soft shadows into motion. The warm ordinariness of her surroundings made it easy to dismiss the cold pall of despair that so colored the mage's narrative.

Sir Aren had entered the room quietly some minutes ago, and now sat on his neatly-made bed rubbing oil into the blade of a plain-looking longsword. He looked up at the sound of her pushing her chair back across the planks. "Well?" he said, laying the sword carefully across the cloth in his lap. "What do you think?"

"Beyond the obvious?" She wrinkled her nose skeptically, lacing her fingers together to stretch before leaning back in her chair and looking at him. There was a raw kind of sensitivity about Sir Aren that made it difficult for Callista to imagine him wielding a blade, hacking through enemies as though they were nothing more than unfeeling meat, but his ease with the weapon in his hands gave the lie to that. "A sad enough story, but I don't see the mystery in it."

He frowned in disagreement. "But what they found in the cave – "

"Could have been anything. The man was  _mad_ , Aren.  _Sir_  Aren," she corrected herself. "It could have been a ghost, a demon, a shiny rock – he never even saw it for himself. I think the most important fact is the obvious one. That village's mage – its only mage, unless he was lying, and I don't think he was – was mad as an imp on an altarstone. Cause enough for disaster, don't you think?"

"You think he killed them?" Sir Aren asked, brow rising in disbelief.

Callista shrugged. "It's possible, though that's not what I was getting at. That settlement was near Felwood. Do really you think the Legion would've left it intact for long? Without sorcery to fend them off, it was only a matter of time."

He shook his head, unconvinced. "Those fiends rarely leave the forest in force, even now. None of the earlier chronicles mentioned seeing even a single demon."

"The mortal armies weren't the only ones who had to rebuild after Hyjal," she countered with a humorless smile. "And it's hardly surprising they've never razed any night elven outposts – they're all fortified by now, aren't they? The Legion's battles against the elves rarely went well, anyway, and not all of them are too stupid to remember it. A lone, unguarded human settlement, however…"

"Unguarded? Most of those villagers were veterans, Callista. Survivors. Almost all of them could wield a blade."

"Better than a company of felguards?"

"There are no  _companies_  of felguards in Felwood," he said in exasperation. "Plenty of demons, yes, but as far as we can tell they've all gone feral. They attack each other as often as they do us!"

For a moment Callista just stared, torn between disbelief, pity and black amusement, until she resolved her dilemma with a peal of laughter, swiveling sideways in her chair to better eye him. "Oh, do they now?" she said, choking back her inappropriate mirth. "Whoever your spies are, shoot them."

She'd managed to annoy him again; the set of his broad shoulders had become distinctly stubborn. "What are you saying?"

She opened her mouth to snap something derisive but hesitated instead, thinking about that for a moment. What  _was_  she saying? Obviously the Alliance (or at least the part of it represented by Sir Aren) had little idea what it was really dealing with in Felwood. Patriotism (what smidgeon of it she'd ever had) dictated she remedy that, but the fact of the matter was, at the moment she was far more irritated with the Alliance than she was with at least one of the dreadlords in Jaedenar. Granted, he  _had_  clawed up her arm and caused her a fair bit of hungover explaining the next morning, but from a demon that treatment was practically affectionate. Sort of. Okay, maybe not, but it was still preferable to blackmail.

At the same time, she was becoming fond of Sir Aren and his company (except for, perhaps, that night elf), and the idea of them strolling obliviously into the forest to get shredded by the Shadow Council caused her a nasty stab of guilt.

Repressing a sigh of annoyance directed mostly at herself, she met his gaze with her own purged of the offending amusement. "I'm saying, the Legion there is more formidable than you seem to think. I've been to Felwood. There are true commanders there now, bringing their forces in line."

The guardedness was back in his posture when he looked at her, there in the stiffness of his back and the way his fingers curled unconsciously around the hilt of the sword in his lap. "What were you – " He cut himself off with a shake of his head. "No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. What kind of commanders? More satyrs? Doomguards?"

No, he didn't want to know, because then he might not be able to trust her, and he had no choice but to trust her, did he? "If it makes you feel better, I was only there after plaguebloom and I didn't go very far in," she said, offering him the lie out of sympathy. "I just talked to other warlocks who had. And yes, there are satyrs and doomguards there, but if the rumors are true, they answer to a dreadlord.  _That's_  why you should leave it alone."

He seemed to study the glistening blade on his lap before meeting her eyes again. "And you believe these rumors?"

Oh, did she ever. "Yes."

He nodded, and she was annoyed to see neither surprise nor faltering in his eyes, only resignation. "We'd heard…whispers…but we didn't want to believe it without harder evidence. There'd never been very many, even during the war, and we'd made an effort to destroy them all. We thought we'd done it, too. Except for that Forsaken witch's pet."

Yes, Varimathras. Callista drew little distinction between the free-willed undead and those of the Scourge, but she had a great deal of professional respect for anyone who could put a leash on a creature like Nerothos, whether the woman was still breathing or not. With effort, she swallowed the impulse to scoff at anyone who thought they'd killed every Legion dreadlord on Azeroth. She had no doubt the fiends would be delighted to hear it. "I get the impression they're not easy creatures to corner," she said, not entirely managing to keep the dryness from her tone.

Luckily, the paladin seemed to notice nothing odd about it. "No, they're not," he agreed. "Even so, our orders stand. We can't 'leave it alone,' though we'll be as careful as we can." He paused, watching her, and she knew, with an uncomfortable feeling, what he was about to ask even before he said it. "I know you've been badly done by, and I'm sorry. But we could really use your help."

She started shaking her head before he'd finished his sentence. "No, you can't. There's nothing I could do for you against a dreadlord. No warlock I know could."

It was probably even true. Oh, if he caught them all skulking through Felwood, Nerothos might let  _her_  go (after he finished sneering and coercing a favor or two out of her), but she doubted very much that his tolerance would extend to a gaggle of paladins. Besides, there was no guarantee that Nerothos would even be the creature they met. There was more than one dreadlord in that forest, and it was likely they'd be hacked to pieces by felguards before they saw any of them anyway.

"We're not going there to kill a dreadlord, Callista," he said. He leaned forward over the sword resting on his lap, holding her gaze with his own. The man could really look depressingly sincere when he wanted to. "We just want to search and stay beneath notice."

The twinge of sympathy his guileless expression stirred in her was quickly snuffed by a defensive flare of contempt. Sensing they'd reached an impasse and annoyed at his continued attempts to persuade her, Callista stood with an impatient scrape of chair legs, gathering her cloak over one arm. "If you want to stay beneath notice, then do your searching somewhere else."

"We can't. You know we can't." His voice was quiet, but there was iron in it. The voice of a man who had his orders and intended to follow them, eyes wide open and without illusion, straight into the abyss.

Callista scowled. Twisting Nether, the only thing worse than a paladin who was an honor-less hypocrite was one who wasn't. The more earnest and resigned he sounded, the more she suffered an unholy urge to grab him by the collar of his tunic and shake. Not that it would likely help; the man was almost twice as broad in the shoulder as she was. Maybe she could summon her voidwalker and they could  _both_  shake. Sir Aren still probably wouldn't be convinced, but at least she would feel better.

Striding to the door, she pulled it open and paused, studying the now wary-looking paladin with her most scathing expression. "Then you've got all the help I can give you."

Not waiting for a reply, she kicked the door shut behind her hard enough to rattle the locks of the rooms on either side, and blinked as the head of every passenger in the corridor (including both Redbranch brothers) swiveled to stare at the slam.

Alright. Perhaps that had been slightly over-dramatic.

 


	7. Visitation

Long after the last shivers in the air from Callista's exit had stilled, Aren continued to study the length of bright steel that lay in his lap. The ritual with the oil and the worn piece of sharkskin was entirely unnecessary – the blessing that lay on the plain-looking blade would keep it from ever rusting or growing dull – but it was an old comforting habit now, relic of a time when the weapon had been an ordinary sword in truth, given to him by a captain long dead in defense of a kingdom equally so. He'd been young, then. A city guard who'd never drawn blade in anything but mock battles, dreaming of heroism in a war naively clean of blood.

Lamplight flickered from the steel, spattering the planks of the ceiling with light. He'd since found his war, and it hadn't been clean at all. Of anything. When he'd been a boy, reared on tales of Lothar and Turalyon and the fall of the orcish Horde, he'd believed that war was about courage; when he'd joined the guard and imagined himself very grown and wise, he'd believed it was about killing; when he slashed his blade across the throat of his first human enemy, a cultist who'd laughed at his white rage even as he choked on his own blood, he'd realized the truth: war was about _annihilation_. Of people. Land. Decency. Faith. When all your enemy sought was death, killing wasn't enough.

He slid the sword carefully back into its reinforced leather scabbard and stood, buckling it at his belt over his left hip. The danger was past, now, but the other passengers would be skittish, and the sight of him and the rest of his company held in readiness might be reassuring. Not that they'd been very useful last time. It was the one thing he envied Callista and her ilk; a skilled arcanist had little need of weapons other than herself.

Checking one last time that he'd scrubbed all of the dried blood from his hands, he pulled open his door and headed into the corridor. Thoughts drifting back to the warlock, he suppressed a mental wince at the way their conversation had ended. The woman seemed to vacillate solely between more-or-less tolerant amusement (he tried not to let the arrogance implicit in it bother him) and vicious irritation, and whatever cues triggered the switch were completely mystifying to him. Maybe it was simply that she hated him. She did think he'd tried to blackmail her, after all.

And the things she'd said about Felwood…

The mist sent a chill through him as he stepped out of the stairwell and into the feeble daylight. A breeze had sprung up to twist the fog into tattered shreds, dispelling some of the heavy dread that hung in it even as it worsened the cold. Only a few huddled figures remained on deck, and none turned to watch as Aren returned to his familiar place at the rail, staring contemplatively down into iron waves streamered with mist. Mercifully free of wreckage, now.

Callista had confirmed all the Dawn's worst suspicions about that corrupted forest, and done it as though she'd thought them complete fools to believe anything else. The casualness of the revelation disturbed him almost as much as its substance. How had she come by such knowledge? Did all warlocks know as much? She'd implied so. Perhaps they'd been wrong to so alienate those regulars of The Slaughtered Lamb. Or perhaps she was lying, the knowledge peculiar to her alone, and maybe letting her on this ship was the mistake. But no, that was unfair. She hadn't even volunteered for this, and all she wanted was to go home.

Movement at the corner of his eye snagged his attention, and he glanced over to see Luciel lean against the mist-beaded rail to his right. She smiled at his regard, expression nudging the dark leopard-like spots of her tattoos into new lines. He'd known the night elf for some time now, but had never quite gotten used to speaking with a woman head and shoulders above his own by no means inconsequential height. She had none of the awkwardness very tall women of his own race sometimes displayed; on the contrary, she moved with the graceful economy of a hunting cat.

"Your people's hunger for travel always astonishes me," she said, tilting her gaze wryly at the sails luffing in the breeze.

Aren followed the line of her glance with mild surprise. "Does it? I saw much larger ships at Auberdine." Much more beautiful, too, lantern-hung and carved with cunningly-wrought natural scenes.

"Yes, and I have no doubt you remember them because they were each unique, while this ship has dozens of sisters. My people do not build fleets. There are too few willing to be borne by them."

He turned, leaning his back against the hard rail and crossing his arms against the cold as he watched the white canvas ripple. "That…surprises me. There are quite a few elves in the Dawn, now. And even more in Outland."

Her smile was wistful beneath the hard silver of her eyes. "We have always understood necessity."

Necessity. Yes. Luciel's people were the first guardians of this world, charged by dragons before the first human cities rose and gifted immortality in exchange. He heard that at Mount Hyjal they had surrendered that gift, though he had never dared ask Luciel if it were true. Even so, they were ever at the front lines in the battle against the demons.

"Are you…sorry…that you're no longer alone?" he asked haltingly. He knew they had always been an insular people, wondered if they resented being thrust into the crowded politics of the Alliance.

For a moment Luciel was silent. Hair the deep blue of shadow fell across a pointed ear as she canted her head in thought. "For myself…no. Though there is much to trouble us about you. You harbor so many arcanists. You tolerate consorters with demons but disregard all life that can't raise a blade in its own defense." She smiled again. "But you stood with us against the Legion, and after all, your races are all so young. My own people made much more terrible mistakes in our own youth. Perhaps history will be lesson enough."

_And how much of that history have you seen?_  He wanted to ask, but didn't. He had no idea how old Luciel really was; any event she mentioned that happened before Hyjal belonged solely to her own people, and he had no means of gauging its antiquity. He suspected, however, that she'd seen more than a few human lifetimes. Sometimes he wondered if she resented serving under the command of an officer with only a fraction of her long experience.

"Perhaps," he agreed.

The heavy clomp of boots and cheerful ring of voices marked Ander and Nathanial's arrival on deck, Vorthaal in their wake. They'd all donned their black and silver tabards, though only Nathanial had a scabbard hanging at his hip.

"So you're  _not_  an oozeling!" Ander called, grinning at Aren.

This was a weird kind of greeting, but then, he'd learned to expect that from Ander. "Was I supposed to be?"

"Maybe." He tipped his chin mischievously at Luciel, and she raised a long brow in return. "We saw Callista storming out of your room with a face to freeze hellfire. Since you weren't with her, we assumed she'd turned you into something disgusting."

This was said with a certain amount of relish, as though Ander might not have minded the spectacle.

" _You_  assumed," Nathanial corrected, crossing his arms with a clink of chainmail.

"I assumed and you didn't correct me…"

"Would that not be a serious breach of discipline?" Vorthaal wondered, frowning in bemusement. The draenei stood as tall as one Redbranch sitting on the other's shoulders, and had to crane his neck downwards to study the two curly-haired humans. "I was not aware your warlocks were skilled in such transformations."

"It would be, and they aren't," Nathanial said, rolling his eyes tolerantly at Ander. "My brother thinks he's funny."

"I just want to know what he said to her."

"Why?" Nathanial asked with an air of something not quite suspicion.

Luciel smiled at Ander's suddenly cherubic expression, showing canines just a little too pointed to be human. "Probably so he can repeat it," she said dryly.

" _Hey!_ "

Aren snorted, shaking his head. Sooner or later, he'd have to gather them all together to share some or all of what he'd learned about their mission since leaving port, but now was not the time.

"Callista is more familiar with Felwood than I am," he said, trying to be as truthful as possible without saying too much. "I wanted her opinion on our approach."

Ander snickered. "I guess she didn't like it."

"She had…concerns," Aren admitted. He pushed himself away from the rail, cloak sticking to his back where the mist had dampened it. "But nothing we don't have plenty of time to work out before we disembark."

As Ander nodded, interest already waning in light of his dull explanation, he silently prayed that it wasn't a lie.

* * *

Not long after, Callista sat in the galley beneath the swaying light of one of the lanterns hung on the wall. The sun had begun to set, staining the threads of mist outside the porthole the color of wet blood. A sheet of parchment lay on the table before her, blank except for an address in the Mage Quarter and a greeting – "Dear Tun."

Wrinkling her nose thoughtfully, she knocked the excess ink off against the side of the inkwell and set the nib of her quill to paper. She wouldn't be able to mail the letter until they made port, but her earlier conversation with Sir Aren had agitated her, and she needed something to do besides pace the deck and unnerve superstitious sailors. The problem was, writing required her to marshal her thoughts into some kind of order, and at the moment she was finding that difficult.

_Dear Tun,_

_Two days out of port and the fog is as thick as soup. Or maybe graveyard mud would be more appropriate, since it's also full of corpses. We've already been attacked by undead. We managed to fight them off, only slightly hampered by the fact this ship is ferrying idiots. Tried to warn them about Felwood but they wouldn't listen. Will probably try to stroll through Jaedenar and get eaten. No, I am not sarcastic because this bothers me, why would you think that?_

Dropping her quill back into the inkwell with an unconscious scowl, she waved her palm above the parchment, blue flame devouring the ink in its wake. When the offending paragraph was gone, she leaned back in her chair, eyeing the innocuous rectangle of paper as though wondering what it might look like on fire too.

This lopsided staring contest was interrupted when someone slid onto the bench across from Callista and thudded a large tome down on the table.

She probably would've ignored the new arrival, except it decided then to speak to her.

"I saw what you did."

The voice was high and feminine and entirely unfamiliar. In no state of mind to make friends, Callista looked up without tempering her scowl. The human girl – for that's what the newcomer was – flinched a little before setting her jaw stubbornly. She looked to be in her middle teens, the hood of her student's cloak pulled up over her mousy brown hair despite the heat of the galley. A mage, then.

Irritation growing, Callista said nothing, continuing to study the strange girl with a hostile contempt she hoped she'd find intimidating enough to flee.

A vain hope, it turned out, as the girl's already large eyes grew even larger (or maybe it only seemed that way as she tried to shrink deeper into her cloak) but she didn't rise from the bench. "I saw what you did," she repeated, dropping her gaze before meeting Callista's again determinedly. "To that ship. The captain says you're a fire mage, but I know you're not."

The warlock had never had any particular love of children, especially nosy ones, and very especially ones she suspected were about to lecture her on the evils of unrestrained magic. Her eyes flicked to the book the girl had dropped so vehemently onto the table –  _Compendium Pyromancia_ , a mages' sixth-year textbook. Callista had studied it herself, briefly, before her expulsion for meddling with demons. "Yes, which means I can't help you with your homework. Go pester someone else."

The girl shifted uncomfortably on the bench, but the stubborn lines of her jaw didn't relax. "Can you read demonic?"

Oh, Twisting Nether, this was worse than a self-righteous speech. She narrowed her eyes, examining the girl's book more closely, and finally caught a weak breath of fel magic. Illusioned, though not well enough. "The enchantment on that is failing," she observed irrelevantly. If the girl was too inexperienced to read whatever spell she was trying to cast, she was almost certainly too inexperienced to be messing with it anyway.

"I know it is," the girl said, still fidgeting. "But I can't help it, it's not mine."

Callista raised a brow, causing her to squirm even more.

"The spell isn't mine, I mean. The book is. Please, I'm trying to learn."

"Whatever you want with demons, it's probably not worth it. Throw that thing overboard before one of your magisters does it for you. And tosses you after it." Resigned to the fact she wouldn't be finishing her letter until she shooed this girl away, Callista screwed the top back onto her inkwell and seared the damp ink from her quill nib with a twitch of her fingers.

The girl scowled. "How can you say that after what I saw you do."

Dishonestly, that's how. But just because Callista didn't regret her choices didn't mean she'd recommend them to children. She snorted. "Burning a pile of dead wood isn't much of a show of power."

"It is when you make a firestorm to do it," she said, watching her suspiciously.

Alright, so maybe she  _had_  used a little overkill. But there had been undead on that ship, and the necromancy that animated them wouldn't fail if the bodies were just singed; she'd needed to annihilate them. And so she had. "A mage could've conjured a better one."  _And that captain wouldn't have had fits over it._

The girl crossed her thin arms over her chest. "I don't want to conjure a firestorm. I want to kill demons."

" _Kill_  demons?" Callista echoed in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "You do know what warlocks do."

Annoyance flashed over the girl's face, or maybe it was just the shadow of her hood in the swinging lamplight. "You have power over them. You can enslave them, and that makes them easier to kill."

Callista laughed, intentionally making the sound unpleasant. "Does it now?" She wasn't sure where this girl was getting her ideas, but she had best abandon them before she learned the truth through nasty experience. "Do you know what the problem is with leashes? They only work when they're held at both ends."

The girl scowled uncertainly at her, sensing a trap. "But only one end has the power."

Callista scoffed again. "You've never seen a big dog drag a serving boy through the mud? Why do you want to kill demons anyway?" She had a dim view of demon-slaying as a hobby even for people who were good at it, if they were doing it for anything but the coin. Trying to exterminate the Burning Legion by killing demons one by one was like trying to empty the ocean with a teacup.

Undeterred, the girl continued to stare at her with her arms crossed obstinately. "If I tell you, will you help me?"

"Probably not."

The girl made a face, unsure whether to take that seriously. "My brother died in Ashenvale forest," she said after a moment. "During the war. Satyrs killed him." She intentionally kept her voice hard, but the awkward stiffness in her expression betrayed her grief anyway.

Oh, plaguing hells. Callista hated touchy scenes. She was terrible at finding the right thing to say, something she found strangely uncomfortable considering that in normal conversation she often said the exact wrong thing on purpose. She eyed the girl skeptically. "Then I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know you're trying to bargain with demons."

"Not bargain!" the girl said, bristling. "I want to – "

"Enslave them, I know," Callista interrupted. "But the first thing you learn about enslaving demons, at least if you want to live very long, is how to pick your battles. Otherwise you'll be too tired to fight the important ones, and then you might find that leash you're holding wrapped around your neck. Just because a demon's a slave doesn't mean it stops acting like what it is."

The girl seemed to chew on that, but only for a moment before her stubborn glower returned. "I'm not going to – "

"Oh, save it," Callista said, toying irritably with the feather of her quill. "I don't know you, and I don't care what you do or why. Or what you tell yourself about why. Go join the Argus Wake for all it matters to me, but don't expect me to help."

The girl's mouth fell open slightly at such a blunt dismissal, but she snapped it shut once she noticed and an angry flush rose in her cheeks. Standing (finally), she swept her book off the table. "My name's Dinah," she said. "Now you know."

She whirled off, exit marred only a little when her cloak snagged on a splinter in the table and she had to tug it free.

Callista repressed a snort as she stalked away. Had she been so dramatic at that age? Probably. Very likely she'd been worse. Thank Light and Shadow she'd never had to deal with herself.

"Why did you discourage her?"

She jumped, knocking over her inkwell, as Vorthaal's heavily-accented voice rumbled from above her right shoulder. The draenei moved very lightly for an eight-foot-tall armored creature with enormous hooves.

Righting the inkwell, which had fortunately remained closed, she twisted around to look at him. "Tw-Holy Light, don't  _do_  that!"

Tail swishing in a gesture she imagined was sheepish, he offered her a smile. "My apologies. I did not mean to offend, I was only curious."

"No, it's alright, you just startled me." She cocked her head, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear as she eyed him. How long had he been listening? "Do you really think I should've encouraged her?"

Purple crystals pulsed gently at his pauldrons and the center of his breastplate, set in hammered metal thicker than her hand. Nether, except for the choice of colors he really did look like an eredar. "Of course not," he said. "It is a very narrow path you walk when you bargain with man'ari. But it is a path you have chosen, and you do not seem to regret it."

"No, I don't," Callista said. "But just because I'm happy with my choices doesn't mean they've all been good."

"You have been lucky," he said, narrowing his bright white eyes speculatively on her face.

The close regard made her uncomfortable, but she was too used to the feeling to squirm. "Not  _just_  luck, I hope," she said, vaguely nettled by the implication. "But it helps. And 'Be lucky' is hardly useful advice."

"No, it is not," he agreed.

Silence followed his words. With Dinah's abrupt departure, they were the only two passengers left in the galley. The last glow of sunset had faded behind the portholes, now nothing but circles of inky blackness, and though lanterns still burned in the galley, a dwarf with a long cork-handled snuffer was edging around the room and dousing each one.

"The sun is gone, and it seems it is time to retire, yes?" Vorthaal said finally, watching him. The draenei was even more imposing in profile, the half-light emphasizing the bony ridges on his nose and the tendrils snaking down from his chin.

"So it seems," Callista said. She wondered what he'd made of their conversation, gathering up her writing supplies and still mostly blank parchment and following him as he made his way out of the galley. The draenei's tolerance surprised her, especially from a paladin. He had better reason to hate warlocks than anyone aboard, even Luciel, yet he showed her far less hostility. Odd, considering her own probably obvious discomfort in his presence.

She found herself strangely glad of him now, however. They walked the unlit hall alone, and, on this night at least,  _The Fortitude_  seemed to her an unfriendly place. Pitch blackness and lonely corridors, the sigh of waves and the groan of straining wood. She mentally scolded herself for her sudden fear of the harmless dark. Probably that scene on deck earlier – all those ghastly plague-eaten corpses staggering through the mist – was preying on her nerves. She'd walked without hesitation in much more dangerous places.

All the same, she felt a foolish stab of relief when Wynda opened the door to her knock.

"Ach, I was wondering where you went," she said, opening it further to spill a golden wedge of light into the corridor.

"Just writing a letter. Well, trying to," Callista amended as Wynda snorted at her pristine piece of parchment.

Vorthaal dipped his head courteously at the two women. When he straightened again, the ridges that climbed from his forehead almost scraped the ceiling. "Dream in the Light."

Callista thought that was rather unlikely in her case, but she appreciated the sentiment anyway. "And you."

His soft hoofbeats faded down the corridor as Wynda closed the door behind them.

* * *

She wasn't sure what woke her, but it wasn't the sun. Opening her eyes groggily in the unrelieved darkness of her room, she pulled her quilt closer around her shoulders and rolled over so she could see out the porthole. The fog that had clung to the glass earlier had dissipated and cold pinpricks of starlight glittered in the sky. Wynda's soft breathing floated up from the lower bunk, slow and even with sleep.

Yawning, Callista rolled back over and shut her eyes, trying to recapture her pleasant drowsiness. Probably she just wasn't used yet to going to bed with the sun. In Stormwind, she often stayed up late into the night, practicing spells or carousing or doing any number of things best tried in darkness, but on this ship there was little to do after sunset. She was sure she just needed to adjust.

Even so, a niggling sense of unease fouled her efforts to relax back into sleep. Her heartbeats came fast despite the comforting stillness of her room, and she somehow found her fingers tangled tight in her sheets. When she unclenched them the fabric was damp with sweat.

Silently berating herself for foolishness even as she did it, she quested outward with her magic, searching for anything awry. She closed her eyes, hiding the green glow that would've risen in them in case Wynda woke up to be alarmed, but after a moment it faded anyway. There was nothing there, of course. She hadn't really expected to find demons miles out to sea.

Throwing an arm over her eyes, she shifted deeper into her warm nest of blankets, cursing the way her ears pricked at every night noise of the ship. The creak of wood, the slap of water against the hull, she swore she could even hear the scratch of canvas against the spars high above. Clearly she wasn't cut out for sailing.

Something thumped out in the corridor.

Last tendrils of sleep banished, Callista stiffened, ears straining, even as she continued to scold herself. So what if that  _wasn't_  just some sailor dropping a bundle? What did she expect to find on this crate that she couldn't maul as easily as thinking?

The idea wasn't as comforting as it usually was.

_Scritch, scratch._

_Pause._

_Scratch. Scratch_.

The thump didn't repeat itself, but that curious furtive scraping continued. Canvas against the spars, indeed.

Breathing a low hiss, Callista sat up and found herself frozen with dread. Suddenly, she knew –  _knew_ , with the same certainty that told her night followed sunset and fire would burn – that there was something in the room.

She hunched down against her pillow, heart hammering in her ears and eyes straining futilely against the dark. Inky shadows coiled along the floor, shelter for things with long teeth and pitted eyes, and didn't she know better than anyone that such creatures were real? Listening to the ragged gasp of her own breath in the silence, the urge to simply curl up against the headboard to wait for dawn was very strong. If she didn't move, she would be safe...

Startled by her own thought, her eyes narrowed briefly against the dark. Safe? Would she be? Why? A small suspicious corner of her mind stirred awake to struggle against the terror, but it was so hard to think about anything but weakness. Like her thoughts were being shoved down some claustrophobic tunnel with nothing but fear at its end.

Being shoved. Yes, that was exactly what it felt like. And there was a certain familiarity to the feeling, flashes of a dark corridor on a strange world, artificial terror and the sardonic sneer of a dreadlord...

Oh, she didn't  _think_  so.

Fear magic was a nasty enough trick even from the other end. And Callista didn't like being steered.

Holding on to that flare of defiance, she slid silently out from her covers until she could rest her bare feet on the first rung of the bunk ladder. Easing her weight onto it to avoid the groan of wood, she climbed down, pausing at the bottom to take a few deep breaths and still her shaking hands. A particularly loud creak almost sent her scrambling upwards again, but she snarled viciously at herself until the fear ebbed.

Deep shadows crevassed the floor, but all of them were still.

She glanced over at the lump Wynda made under the quilt, toying with the idea of waking her, but no, not yet. If she turned out to be wrong, she wasn't about to have some paladin chuckling at her for being afraid of the dark.

Slipping the two short steps to the door, she laid a palm against the heavy wood and leaned to the peephole with breath held, swearing silently when her trembling almost made her knock her eye against it.

The scratching sound was louder with her ear almost to the boards, but for a moment all she saw was blackness. Had someone painted over the peephole?

Then the dark faded, and she was glad she'd held her breath because it meant she had no air to make a sound. Tattered grey flaps, like moth-eaten curtains but strangely moist, a flash of something white, a coil of rope on the floor on the other side of the corridor…it took her a moment to realize she was staring  _into_  the decayed cheek of a ghoul.

She stifled the urge to leap away from the door. Twisting Nether, the thing was  _right there_! How hadn't it smelled her?

Lank hair flashed before the peephole as it lurched past, clawed toenails scraping against the floorboards. Movement across the corridor caught her attention as another ghoul staggered into view, the milky ghostlight of its eyes shining in the dark.

This wasn't right. Where had they come from? Why hadn't anyone raised an alarm?

Backing quietly away from the door, Callista leaned close over Wynda's ear, hand hovering near the other woman's mouth in case she woke too loudly. "Wynda!" she hissed.

The dwarf stirred with a groan, tousled red hair emerging farther from the blankets, but she didn't open her eyes. "For Light's sake – "

"Shhhh! Wake up and be quiet!" Callista rasped. "There's ghouls in the corridor."

That took a moment to penetrate Wynda's haze of sleep, but once it did her eyes flew open and she grunted in disbelief. She rolled over to face Callista, throwing off her covers. "What?" she said, voice barely above a whisper this time. "How many? What are you on about, lass, we left them all behind!"

"Only two that I could see, but there may be more. We sailed pretty close to some of the ones in the water, maybe they managed to grab on under the hull." That relentless fear was still there, slinking beneath the surface of her self-control, but the presence of another living creature helped. Callista rummaged quietly through her pack as she spoke, unfolding her black and red set of robes and pulling them on over the shift she'd worn to sleep. She didn't bother with socks or calfskin leggings, yanking her boots on over her bare feet. She'd just have to remember not to go up any ladders first, assuming anyone even cared about such things during a ghoul invasion.

In typical fashion, Wynda had gone to sleep in her leathers, putting her a step ahead of the half-clad warlock. "I believe you, but if they're out there why can't I hear screaming? And why do I feel like there's spiders running up my spine even though I haven't even seen the fiends?"

Callista shrugged, knotting her tangled hair up and away from her face. "I was right up against the door before and they didn't seem to notice." That was odd, but she thought the dwarf's second question was the better one. Callista's mouth was dry and her heart raced in something near terror, far out of proportion to what the sight of two ghouls should have caused. There was foul magic in this for certain, but whose? Those rotted corpses outside couldn't possibly have enough mind left for spellwork.

Wynda hefted her thick silver breastplate easily, ducking her head through and then tightening the straps with practiced jerks. "Then there's probably more mischief than the two you saw about, but we'll get to the bottom of it starting with them." She pulled on her armored boots and gauntlets and lifted her warhammer from where it rested against the bedpost, golden light already welling up from its inscriptions. "I'll go first and you follow close. Finish it quietly. Don't want anyone sticking his head out the door to get it clawed off."

That sounded fine to Callista, who wasn't about to quibble over the privilege of leaping first into a Scourge-infested hallway. She gave the pouch of soulshards linked to her belt a tug, checking the binding. "Alright. Let's go."

Wynda rested her hammer against her shoulder, pausing to peer though the peephole and grunting in disgust before turning the doorknob carefully. She slipped through, and Callista heard the wet crunch of steel hitting bone before she'd even followed her out into the passage.

She ducked out at her heels, iridescent shadow coursing through her fingers as she hunted for targets.

One ghoul already down, head crushed to pulp by a hammer swing, and two more near the stairs whirling to face Wynda. The whole engagement was strangely quiet; no moans or snarls from the undead, no battle cries from the paladin, just the light  _thunk_  of Wynda's boots on the wood as she stalked towards them.

Checking once over her shoulder for an ambush (not that ghouls usually ambushed, but something had been off about this fight from the start) she loosed the spell she'd gathered into a seething mass of dark tendrils that rocketed towards the ghoul on the right, knocking it back like a rag doll just as it sprung for Wynda. After the helplessness she'd felt earlier, she found the act immensely satisfying.

The other ghoul leaped as well, hunching towards the paladin in an unnatural bestial lope before barreling into her. Its claws and broken teeth scrabbled across her breastplate as it sought her throat, but she grabbed it by the scruff of its moldy tunic and threw it from her. She edged around its thrashing body, trying to gain enough room in the narrow corridor for a finishing swing.

The ghoul mired in Callista's spell writhed on the floor, the shadowy ropes that bound it corroding through rotten skin already seared down to bone in some places. Not good enough – the magic that animated these corpses was a product of Shadow too, and it was resisting her. Gritting her teeth, power flared through her and the ropes constricted, the ghoul falling still as its skull burst like a grape.

Luckily, Callista was out of spatter range, but Wynda wasn't and she grimaced as black ichor slashed across her knees. "Muradin's beard, I think I liked it better when you burned them." She nudged the crushed corpse of the last ghoul with her hammer, now blazing with light, but it didn't twitch.

Callista flicked her eyes around the corridor, still skittish under the last vestiges of that strange fear, but saw nothing stir. "Me too, but do you know what burns even better than ghouls?"

For a moment Wynda frowned, then she barked a humorless laugh, gaze skimming across the varnished wood that surrounded them. "Aye, I take your point. Muck it is, then. Now, let's get the others out of their rooms, no reason we should have all the fun."

Callista was turning to do just that when a frightened yell shattered the silence of the corridor.

She spun to see a man leaning half out of his room, eyes wide as he stared down at the dripping corpse that had fetched up against his door.

"It's alright, lad," Wynda said, keeping her voice low and reassuring as she moved towards him. "Just go back inside and shut your door. We'll take care of – "

"What's going on?" he demanded shakily, cutting her off. His gaze was still pinned to the ghoul's caved-in head. "What happened to it?"

Doors slammed open up and down the corridor as heads emerged to gawk at the commotion. Shrieks rang out as passengers noticed the gore strewn over the planks, and the murmur of conversation rose towards a terrified roar.

"Everyone calm down!" Wynda shouted, trying to chivvy a pair of gnomes back into their room. "Go back inside and don't open your doors!"

She was almost universally ignored as some of the braver passengers began milling out into the passageway still in their nightclothes, cries for someone to find the captain floating above the din.

Ander and Nathanial chose this moment to stumble out of their room, both clad only in loose-fitting pants and rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

"What's happening?" Nathanial called to Wynda.

Ander made the mistake of taking an extra step over the threshold, putting his bare foot down in a congealing puddle of decayed blood and almost stumbling over the dead ghoul. His eyes widened, and for a moment Callista thought he was about to yell as loudly as any passenger in the hallway, but then his nose wrinkled and he began shaking his foot off violently. "Ewww. Who didn't mop."

"Don't mess around, lad," Wynda said impatiently. "Help me get these people back inside!"

Buffeted by bodies and noise, Callista began shoving her way towards the stairwell that led down into the hold, partly out of a vague idea that there might be more ghouls but mostly because she was tired of dodging elbows. The thought of being conscripted by Wynda to herd a bunch of shrieking passengers back into their pens like cattle was extremely unappealing. She'd already had enough of this night.

A hand closed around her arm, and she spun around to snap at its owner until she recognized his face. Sir Aren looked down at her still squint-eyed with sleep, a haze of golden stubble on his chin and cheeks. "Callista?"

She looked him over, taking in the rumpled state of his thin shirt and the disheveled way his hair fell across his forehead, suddenly acutely aware of the warm pressure of his fingers against her arm. His sword belt and scabbard were flung incongruously over one shoulder. "Put some clothes on," she advised, tugging away in consternation at her own reaction.

He blinked and glanced down as though expecting to find he'd forgotten his pants, releasing her arm. "What?"

Callista shrugged, mingled relief and disappointment at the broken contact quickly transmuting into annoyance. "I suppose if you want to fight Scourge in your pajamas, that's really up to you…"

"What are you…" His brow creased, then he paled as an eddy in the crowd revealed the crushed remains of a ghoul. "Light," he muttered. He shook his head, gaze hardening. "Where's Wynda and the others? Has anyone seen Captain Verner?"

"Trying to get all those people back into their rooms, and no, no one – "

The rest of her words were lost as the background murmur of voices rose in pitch, shrieks building into a wave. People jostled blindly past her, and though some had the presence of mind to jump into open rooms and slam the doors shut, many continued past her to flee up onto the deck. Which was, Callista suspected, a very bad idea.

"Hey! Don't go up there!" she shouted, only to be completely ignored.

Sir Aren must have been of much the same mind, because she watched him try to grab the arm of a stumbling dwarf woman only to earn a set of knuckles to the ribs for his concern.

A man in an embroidered nightshirt tripped, landing almost on Callista's boots, and she narrowed her eyes. Oh, honestly now, this was ridiculous.

She flicked her hand in a terse gesture, magic flaring. A wall of black fire that rippled blue at its edges sprang up across the stairwell, causing the nearest passengers to skid back on their heels.

The flame was almost entirely an illusion, just a twisting of shadows, but  _they_  didn't know that. She watched in satisfaction as the man in the nightshirt looked over his shoulder, then to the blazing stairwell, then yelped and scrambled on hands and knees into an unlocked room. Much more sensible.

Sir Aren flinched at the sudden dark conflagration, then seemed to realize what she'd done (the planks beneath the fire weren't even singed) and nodded to himself. "Follow me!" he called to her, buckling the belt around his rumpled shirt and half drawing his sword from its scabbard.

Typical paladin. Fighting zombies in his underclothes it was. For a moment she considered taking point, since the enchantments woven into her robes would provide far better protection than Sir Aren's thin linen, but she was hopeless at hand to hand fighting anyway. Instead she fell in behind him as he shoved through the press of passengers still looking for safety, craning her head to try to see what had frightened them. Not that she couldn't guess. Ghastly moans and the ring of steel echoed from further down the passageway.

They broke through quickly, most of the crowd having abandoned the hallway, and Callista caught a brief glimpse of a forest of broken, bloodstained teeth beneath unseeing eyes before a flash of blue light obliterated her vision.

She cursed and stumbled against the wall, rubbing at the bright spots swimming in her eyes as shouts and pained wails clashed around her.

Luckily the blindness was short-lived, and when the arcane glow faded she found a glittering wall of ice blocking the corridor from floor to ceiling. Frost rimed the walls around it and her breath came in white pants of mist.

"Luciel!" Nathanial called, shouting through hands cupped against the crystalline barrier. "Luciel!"

"She's on the wrong side, you idiot!" Ander cried, whirling with a snarl on a man clad in wrinkled yellow robes.

Sir Aren stepped forward to grab him around both forearms, arresting his leap at the alarmed-looking mage. "Hold, Ander!" he said, a steel in his voice Callista had never heard before. "What's happened here?"

Wynda stepped forward, black blood spattered in an arc across her breastplate and cheek, expression grim. "Ghouls came up through the galley corridor, at least a dozen. We tried to get there in time, but…" She shook her head, wiping gore from her face with the back of a gauntlet. "Too many frightened people. This mage here raised the barrier, but not everyone was on the right side. Including Luciel." She shot the yellow-robed man a hard look at that.

Sir Aren nodded, sliding his sword into its scabbard but letting a hand rest on the hilt. "What's your name, mage? Can you undo your ice?"

The mage was a tall, gangly sort, hair streaked with grey, and when he raised a hand to tug down the sleeve of one arm Callista noticed the Academy signet ring on his finger. "I am Magister Sabrice. And no, no, I'm afraid the magic doesn't work like that."

A muscle in Sir Aren's jaw tightened, but he didn't press him further. "Callista, can you – "

"Not without burning down this ship." She only had half an eye on the paladin, unable to tear her gaze away from the translucent plug of ice. Dark shapes lurched in its depths, but the movements were too unfocused to be a battle. Nothing on that side could possibly be alive anymore.

Magister Sabrice seemed to notice her for the first time, eyes narrowing on the runes sewn into her robes, and his posture stiffened. "The black flames were yours, then. I should've guessed."

"If I may interrupt." Vorthaal stepped forward, face lit by the purple-tinged glow from the crystal head of his warhammer. He must've shared Wynda's habit of sleeping in his leathers because he was clad in them now, a small pendant of wrought silver and green gems that Callista assumed was enchanted hanging against his chest. "Luciel is a warrior, and she will not expect aid we cannot give. We should use this time to prepare, because there will be more."

"Sound advice," Sir Aren said, but from the way his eyes lingered on the frost-veined ice it was obvious that the idea of leaving Luciel to her fate, however necessary, didn't sit easy. "Wynda. Callista. Stay here with the magister while the rest of us – "

"With all due respect, I can't stay here," the mage said, tugging absently at his sleeve again as he watched the shadows move behind the frozen barrier. "My students will – "

"Be perfectly safe inside their room," Sir Aren finished for him. "I won't ask you to stay long, just until the rest of us are ready."

The mage still didn't look pleased, but with Wynda edging casually up to his side to lean against her hammer he had few places to go. "Very well," he said sourly.

"Thank you." Sir Aren's gaze flicked around the corridor, halting briefly on Nathanial and Ander's piecemeal armor and Vorthaal's leathers before he turned. "Come on. We'll arm ourselves properly and then split up to look for the crew."

"Why not have  _her_  do it?" Magister Sabrice asked sharply, jabbing a finger at Callista. "Don't you have an Eye, girl?"

Startled, Callista narrowed her eyes at the mage's long pale finger pointing at her chest. "Actually, yes." She could, in fact, conjure an Eye of Kilrogg, and she'd intended to use it, but it was an odd thing for an instructor at the Academy of Arcane Arts to be familiar with. "A kind of scrying," she explained in response to Sir Aren's blank look. "I can try it, but I'll be blind to anything happening in front of me."

"Don't worry your head, lass," Wynda said, clapping her on the arm with a gauntleted hand hard enough to make her wince. "Anything nasty pops up and I'll give you a nudge."

"Thanks for that," Callista said wryly as she rubbed her stinging arm.

"Alright then," Sir Aren said. His eyes met hers just long enough to make her skin prickle oddly before he jerked his gaze away, seeming to study a line of ichor trickling down the woodgrain perilously close to his bare toes. "See what you can see. We'll be back soon." He turned then, nudging his belt back up with his knuckles (his linen pants didn't have loops and the weight of the scabbard kept dislodging it), and padded down the hall with Vorthaal and the Redbranches in tow.

Resisting the urge to follow his retreating back (and what was Sir Aren to her anyway, she'd never liked paladins) Callista took one last look around the corridor before she began her spell, marking for the first time the copious smears of blood on the floor. There were no bodies to be seen, however, and she assumed they all must be locked behind that glistening core of ice. Poor unlucky fools. At least the screaming had stopped.

Green mist drifted between her cupped palms and began to coalesce as she focused, spinning into a glowing chartreuse ball. She couldn't help but notice Magister Sabrice's stare fastened to her spellwork, and met his eyes squarely, unappreciative of the attention. "You have quite an interest in fel magic for an Academy mage."

He jumped a little at the observation, pulling more insistently at his sleeve, but recovered quickly. "Unless I'm much mistaken, I could say the same for you, young lady," he said sternly. "Oh, I don't know who you are," he continued, waving a hand dismissively at her surprised expression, "but that curtain of black flame…illusory, of course…" He examined her face more closely, as though searching for some familiar feature despite his last statement. "One of Jessera's tricks. Not that I mean to impugn her by implying she dabbles in the fel, because no, no, of course she wouldn't. But the principles are the same, yes? You studied under her once."

He had her there. Callista was thrown off-balance enough by the sudden reminder of her old instructor to almost lose focus on her spell, the sphere of green mist wobbling before righting itself in its spin. "Not since I was fifteen."

He clucked his tongue at her. "She'd be disappointed at what you've become, I think."

Callista scoffed, collecting herself once again. She didn't like to be reminded of her mage training, memories tinged as they were with embarrassment and old guilt, but she'd set that path aside long ago. "Yes, she looked quite annoyed the day she expelled me…"

"Oh." He didn't seem to have much to say to that, which was just as well because she'd finished her conjuring and the switch of perspective it caused when she blinked was distracting.

Clearing the last of the irritation from her mind, she closed her eyes, switching her vision to that of the sphere of green light nestled in her palms. She saw the ebbing black flames at the mouth of the stairwell over the tips of her own fingers, then the hard glitter of starlight as she sent the Eye up above decks with a flick of a thought.

There was no blood on the stairs, but it lay up top in blotches that gleamed with silver moonlight, already congealing around ragged lumps she didn't care to examine too closely. All those people who had fled upwards…slain now, obviously. But where were the bodies? Callista didn't like any of the possible answers.

She directed her Eye on a quick lap of the deck, rolling it to stare up into the rigging and the billowing forest of sails.

No movement anywhere. No shambling undead, but no crew either…which meant no one was sailing this ship. Callista swore inwardly, hoping they'd already cut far enough away from shore to avoid reefs. Gut twisting with suspicion, she sent the Eye on a quick pass near the lifeboats, but all still appeared to be lashed down beneath their tarps. So, where were the sailors? Her mind jumped queasily back to all that blood.

The Eye completed its circuit as it returned to the forecastle stairs, hovering in place as Callista hesitated. Captain's quarters, or try the hold? The hold was larger; she'd start there.

The bright moonlight dimmed to black as her Eye descended the stairs, but it didn't matter. Magical vision didn't need it. She nudged the Eye up to the ceiling and then forward, slowly because she'd never ventured down below the passenger quarters and she didn't want to miss a cross-passage, alert for the milky shine of ghostlit eyes.

Nothing to see but sealed crates and stillness.

Wait…one of them must have splintered. Pieces of wood littered the floor, and beyond it she saw dark stains on the planks. Were the undead raiding the cargo? That didn't make sense. They were _dead._ What could they possible need? Her Eye edged closer, knotted wood gliding past below.

A flash of algae-streaked bone, claws gouging at her face –

Callista yelped and stumbled backwards against slick ice, hands scrabbling for purchase as her vision flickered back to the blood-smeared corridor. Wynda whipped her head around at the noise, concern on her face, while Magister Sabrice simply looked ill.

"Plaguing hells," she muttered, righting herself and giving her head a sharp shake. She rubbed her palms against her robes, trying to chafe back the warmth the glacial barrier had stolen. That ghoul's strike had dispelled her Eye, and oh, that wasn't right at all. No mindless undead should've even noticed her scrying. All they cared about was the warm reek of flesh, and an Eye of Kilrogg had none of that. No, this had nothing to do with hunger.

_Something_ was down there…and now it knew that she was here, too.

 


	8. Shadow of the Past

He should've let her burn them.

The thought kept circling through Aren's mind as he pulled shut the door to his quarters, shield clanking against the back of his cuirass. He should've argued harder, shouldn't have been so eager to avoid conflict. He could've stopped all of this. One cleansing blanket of flame laid down across the waves, and all of those people –  _Luciel_ – would still be alive.

He shook his head violently to dislodge the thought. Well, it was too late for that now. He'd made a mistake, and now there was nothing to do but stop anyone else from suffering because of it.

Vorthaal and the Redbranches waited midway down the corridor. The planks were free of gore and mangled corpses at this end, and their array of plate and chainmail and unsheathed weapons jarred with the inn-like surroundings.

Ander leaned against a red-painted door, inspecting the blades of his short poleaxe, but looked up with a grin at his approach. "There he is! Let's hurry before our warlock lights them all up without us again." His tone was flippant, but there was something savage in his eyes. For all he played the silly fop, Ander was a dangerous fighter, and he'd been fond of Luciel.

"I wish she would," Nathanial muttered, pulling tight the strap of one of his gauntlets. He'd never shared his brother's bloodlust, even before he had a wife to return home to, and Aren sometimes wondered if he'd stay on with the Dawn after his enlistment was up. He loved his brother, but soldiering wouldn't provide the kind of life he knew he wanted for his family.

Vorthaal, even more a cipher than usual behind the ornate grill of his mask, silently stepped aside to let Aren pass and then fell in behind.

Aren loosened his sword in his scabbard, comforted by the familiar roughness of the grip. Someone had lit the lanterns hanging from hooks hammered into the bulkheads, and it took effort not to jump as every roll of the waves made the shadows jerk.

A shriek echoed from the main corridor.

His sword leapt into his hand before he realized he'd drawn it, and he was dimly aware of Ander's answering roar behind him as he broke into a sprint, blood pounding in his ears. This was all too familiar. The moldy smell of flesh arrested in its decay, the cries of defenseless people being slaughtered – that scream didn't belong to any of his company. Had ghouls broken into one of the rooms?

An unearthly growl halted him in his tracks as he barreled around the corner into the main corridor. Blunt scaled head, mouthful of pointed teeth, twin spines arcing over the shoulders...the felhound stopped snarling at the door and spun to face him, long hackles rising.

He'd fought these before, too. Hillsbrad, after Dalaran fell. A corpse-choked ford and the green glare of infernals overhead, the body beside him –  _Sir Conrad_  – rising again with head hanging crookedly and no light in its eyes. The cruel laugh of a creature with bloodied claws.

He swung his shield from his back and held it low to deter a lunge at his knees, sword poised to lash out.

"Heel, Jhormug!"

_Jhormug?_  He flinched at the voice. Callista. Warlock,  _his_  warlock. A ship, not a battlefield; a human woman, not a dreadlord. This wasn't an enemy, it was a  _pet_.

The felhound backed up slowly, a barely-audible growl rumbling in its throat as its tentacles quested in his direction.

He waited for Callista to grab a handful of the long spikes on the thing's shoulders before slinging his shield onto his back again, lowering his sword. "We heard screaming," he said, flicking his eyes from the felhound to the door it had been nosing.

Callista shrugged. "Someone thought it was a good idea to stick her head out."

"So you set a  _demon_  on her?"

"Oh, Jhormug wasn't going to bite. Unlike a ghoul."

That made a twisted kind of sense, and though he had the nagging feeling it violated some core principle of the Argent Dawn, he couldn't quite seem to pin down which one. He raised a brow at Wynda, who shrugged plate-clad shoulders laconically. "It keeps them inside, lad."

He supposed it did at that. He shook his head. "What about your scrying?"

The warlock's amused expression soured as her brow wrinkled, and the felhound shifted restlessly as her fingers tightened on its spines. "There's something in the hold, and it's not a ghoul. It recognized my Eye."

Aren frowned. "You couldn't see what it was?"

"No. I didn't even get close. A ghoul broke the enchantment as soon as my Eye left the stairwell. Something had to be directing it – most undead won't attack anything that doesn't smell alive."

That was true, and Aren knew it better than most. Her news, though unwelcome, was not entirely unexpected. If those ghouls had been masterless they would've immediately started breaking down doors, not slinking around the passenger deck like thieves. "No sign of the crew?"

"None." She hesitated, yanking at her minion's spines as it nosed in the direction of the yellow-robed mage. "There was a lot of blood upstairs."

In the silence that followed, the uncomfortable creak of armor behind him seemed loud as a dirge.

"So, who here can rig a sail?" Ander wondered.

"None of that, lad," Wynda said, casting a meaningful glance at the closed doors around them. "They may just be barricaded in somewhere."

"Without their  _blood_?"

" _Ander_."

"Alright," Aren cut in before the argument could escalate. "Nathanial, Vorthaal and Ander. Look for the crew. Start on the top deck and work your way downwards, and stay out of the hold until you've tried everywhere else. The rest of you…"

Wynda swung her hammer onto her shoulder at his regard, its inscriptions still glimmering with faint golden light. Callista cocked her head, while the beast at her side sank into a crouch and snarled, reaction made more alarming by the fact the felhound didn't even have eyes to watch him with.

"That thing can track magic," he said, studying it warily. "How well?"

"More than well enough to find what's down there." Her gaze slid to the nervous-looking mage pressed up against one of the crimson doors. "Once we're away from distractions."

Magister Sabrice fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe and scowled at the felhound. "Don't worry, girl, I won't be anywhere near when you let that creature go. One word of caution before I vanish: whatever dispelled your Eye has discovered there's a warlock aboard. This won't be as easy as you think."

She snorted, eyeing the mage with clear distaste. "Unless it has a Legion houndmaster down there, this will be exactly as easy as I think."

"And how easy is that?" Ander piped up.

She shrugged her shoulders skeptically. The warlock had forgone the spikes and skulls favored by many of her brethren, but the red runes picked out across her robes twisted in ways strongly suggestive of chains. "Probably difficult and unpleasant."

Vorthaal's thick tail cleaved the air and his eyes glowed impatiently beneath his helm as he looked towards the stairwell. "We should leave."

"Yes, you should," Magister Sabrice agreed. He turned to pound a fist against the door he'd been leaning on. "Dinah and Claire! Come outside!"

After a brief delay the door creaked open and a mousy-brown head poked out. The girl looked around nervously before slipping into the corridor, a taller black-haired girl following at her heels.

"Once you're gone we'll lay wards," the magister explained. "Dinah! Come over here. Start tracing frost runes along these walls."

The brown-haired girl edged to the section of bulkhead he pointed to, though her eyes remained fastened to Callista's felhound. Its tentacles waved towards her with desultory interest, but at least the beast didn't growl the way it had at him. Aren didn't blame her for her caution. He'd seen felhounds eat mages, sucking them dry of all magical potential before ripping their bodies to shreds, and though this one was under control, its instincts were no different from those of the fiends that had swarmed the countryside after the wrack of Dalaran. The sooner they were away from here, the better.

"Come on," he said, motioning towards the stairwell with a gauntleted hand.

Callista released her grip on the felhound's spines and it bounded ahead, pausing only to snuffle at the limp corpse of a ghoul whose head appeared to have burst outward. Ichor and bone fragments spattered the planks from floor to ceiling, and it licked curiously at them with a thick black tongue before loping onwards.

Aren grimaced as he strode through the mess. Battle magic – fel, arcane or otherwise – may have been efficient, but in the end it was no cleaner or more merciful than a sword-thrust. That it so often allowed its practitioners to kill from a distance without sullying their hands or looking their enemies in the eye, he wasn't sure he considered a blessing.

They all paused on the landing, arms sliding into shield braces and swords hissing from scabbards.

"Good hunting," Nathanial said with a wan smile.

Ander tested the weight of his crescent-blade tipped poleaxe with a feral grin. "Last one back to the galley buys first round."

Aren slung his own kite shield down from his back, slipping his arm through the brace and feeling a comforting warmth flow over him as the blessing inscribed into the metal flared to life. The corner of his mouth quirked tolerantly at Ander's posturing and he raised a brow. "Light go with you…but watch your backs like it won't."

Callista had been lifting down one of the lanterns dangling from hooks in the wall, and he noted the way she paused and flung a sidelong glance at him from the corner of his eye. The fact he'd managed to say something that surprised her filled him with an odd kind of satisfaction.

Vorthaal must have noticed her look, too, because he smiled behind the protective grill of his helm. "It is sometimes wise to temper faith with practicality…and vice-versa, yes?" He met Aren's eyes and dipped his helmed head in acknowledgement before turning. "Naaru guide your path." Leading the two Redbranch brothers, he climbed up into the rectangle of star-studded night above.

"Sure you can manage that, lass?" Wynda asked, watching as Callista slid down all but one of the lantern's shutters. Light flickered from the open side in a bright wedge.

"It'll be fine." She shifted the lantern to her left hand and angled it to illuminate the dark stairs sinking into the hold. Her felhound had bounded halfway down and stopped to wait, but it snarled impatiently as the light fell on it, spiny hackles up and eyeless head tracking some invisible motion below. It crouched awkwardly on its haunches, the stairwell much too cramped for a creature the size of a large wolf. "Most of the hand-waving is just a focusing aid. Or for show, but zombies are notoriously hard to impress."

The dwarf snorted. "I always knew the lot of you might as well have been making hand puppets."

"I'll go first and Wynda, you take rear," Aren said, unsettled by the way the felhound seemed to be fixated on something no one else could see. "Callista, try to stay between us. Unless you have any skill with a weapon?"

"On a good day, I drop them on my  _enemy's_  toes, and on an excellent day they fall point down." She moved up to stand behind his right shoulder, a bright glitter of lamplight in her eyes. "But don't worry, they rarely get close enough to find that out."

Aren laughed quietly, but he hoped that wasn't just bluster. The warlock had said she wasn't a mercenary, and he realized he had no idea if she'd ever seen a true battle at all. Reading a spell from a grimoire in a quiet study was one thing, but summoning the concentration to cast it in a fight while claws and blades flew at your throat was something entirely different. Then again, she'd clearly caused the demise of that ghoul with the burst skull, and she didn't look frightened now.

"There's something hiding at the bottom of the stairs, by the way," she murmured. "Let Jhormug go first."

He nodded and moved onto the first step, following the wobbly beam of lantern-light. The felhound waited until they were almost on top of it and then took the remaining stairs in a leap, planks creaking in protest. It vanished from the pool of light and an unearthly howl shivered back in its wake, quickly joined by the dry snarls of the undead.

Aren ran down the stairwell, jumping the last step and landing with sword out and shield angled defensively towards the noise. Outside of the lantern's yellow glow the darkness yawned like an abyss, and he stared blindly, trying to pivot to cover his flanks and waiting for Callista to arrive with the light.

She didn't.

Wynda's yell echoed above him and the sickly smack of metal striking rotten flesh followed. The beam of light arced wildly as Callista spun to face the attack, flashing briefly across his face, and that moment squashed any intention of retreating to help as it lit the gaping mouth of the ghoul springing for his throat with lurid fireglare.

He thrust upward with his shield, catching the corpse across the chin with the scalloped top and flinging it away. He lunged after it as he strained his eyes against the dark, stumbling over its thrashing legs and then chopping down once, twice, severing thigh muscles in a spray of cool blood before slamming his armored boot down on its chest.

Bony claws scrabbled at his greaves but couldn't find purchase, the ghoul's eyes glowing with empty light as it tried to crane its head around to bite.

Sickened, Aren raised his sword to drive the point down through one of those ghostlit sockets, but the blow went wild as a heavy weight crashed into his back and clung there.

He stumbled, lank hair that reeked of salt water and rot whipping across his cheek as a ghoul raked claws across his breastplate, seeking the soft flesh between the joins. Jamming his shield against the planks to catch his fall, he stabbed backwards with the pommel of his sword, feeling the snap of bones as the leather-wrapped steel connected.

A feral growl close to his ear. Sudden hot pain as a claw raked across his lip and cheek, scoring deep gouges, then his arm was jarred as the edge of his sword connected with something solid. He'd reached the wall. Spinning around, he threw himself backwards against the planks, feeling the sudden give as the ghoul's ribs cracked between the bulkhead and his heavy armor.

He dropped his shield and tasted the coppery heat of blood as he reached back and grabbed the ghoul's rotten shoulder, yanking it around and throwing it to the floor as it groaned and lashed at his face.

His sword point darted down, through one glowing eye and twist, and the clawing limbs jerked and went still. The blessings on the blade sizzled with white light as they burned through cursed flesh.

Sudden brightness; he squinted and blinked in the lantern glare as Callista and Wynda appeared around the side of the stairs.

Black gore smeared the other paladin's warhammer and armor, but none of it was her own and her green eyes swept over him with concern. "You alright, lad? Your face is a mess."

Aren prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and though it stung horribly the scratches didn't seem to go all the way through. "I'm just trying not to think about what was on those claws."

"Hopefully nothing worse than cobwebs. They were hiding under the stairs." Wynda closed her eyes as her lips moved silently, the glyphs on her hammer waxing brighter as she reached out to the Light.

"Under the stairs? You're kidding. Light, all of my childhood fears were true." His torn cheek tingled not unpleasantly as her blessing knitted the broken flesh, and he wiped the blood away with the back of his gauntlet.

A loud snap caught his attention. He turned his head to see the felhound lying at Callista's feet, gnawing on something that on (somewhat regrettable) closer inspection turned out to be a mangled torso, still leaking black ichor. The demon had the entire hunk of flesh between its jaws and was biting down slowly, applying gradual pressure so the ribs cracked one by one.

He grimaced as another one snapped like a rifleshot. " _Demons_ ," he muttered.

Callista had been staring down the dark alley between stacked crates, but she looked over at him at that, and the irritation in her expression startled him. "I get that you're the avenging wrath of the Light and all, but next time could you  _try_ to wait for the felhound? I know that makes it harder to smite the undead heathens, but it also makes it harder to bleed all over the cargo."

Caught off-guard, he opened his mouth to snap something back, realized he couldn't think of anything to say (besides "but I only bled on myself," which sounded stupid even in his head) and shut it again. He didn't like the way she was looking at him, and he especially didn't like the knack she seemed to have for reducing him to a stammering idiot. Under the guise of a commander's calm detachment, he braced a boot against the shoulder of the slain ghoul still at his feet and yanked his sword free. The tip had gone all the way through the skull and lodged in the wood beneath. "Are you finished?" he finally managed neutrally.

Her only answer was an annoyed narrowing of her eyes. He took that as a "no."

Well, maybe she wasn't, but he was.

He stooped to pick up his shield, looking around at the space revealed by the flickering glare of the lantern. The hold was wide and quite deep – not surprising, since this ship had been contracted from the goblin cartels – and lashed-down crates and barrels were piled almost to the ceiling three man-heights overhead. Narrow passages had been left between them to allow access to the cargo, but like many goblin endeavors, the job had been done haphazardly; the result was a sprawling maze of stacked goods, probably all of which they'd have to explore to root out the undead.

Aren blew out air in a quiet sigh, then squinted as he noticed something glistening midway up one of the towers of crates. Ghoul blood. How had it gotten up there? Looking around for the cause, he noticed with a start that the entire area around the stairwell was splattered with ichor and ragged hunks of flesh. In the dark he hadn't been able to see it. "It ripped them apart," he muttered, somewhere between impressed and disgusted. And she'd been complaining about  _his_  blood everywhere.

"Ghouls are magical constructs, and felhunters eat magic," Callista pointed out coolly. Her eyes swept over the crates piled around them, and she opened another panel on the lantern to brighten the light. "He only got three of them anyway."

He was about to ask how she could tell, then he noticed the chewed-off heads, rotted faces frozen with mouths still gaping to bite, tumbled up against a barrel.

"One Sir Aren stabbed, three we killed outside our room, two just now on the stairwell, those three heads – that's disgusting, by the way, lass…" Wynda squinted into the shadows outside their circle of light. "That's a lot of corpses to sneak over the rails with no one noticing."

"There was an enchantment over the ship before," Callista said. The runes on her robes had begun to glow faintly, the color of hot coals against the black. "Fear magic, probably meant to keep everyone inside. Maybe no one was watching."

"Aye, that would do it. No wonder my nerves were crawling."

There'd been a spell on the ship? Aren hadn't known that. If the warlock had sensed it, no wonder the two women had been the first out of their rooms. It galled him to think they'd all been in danger and he'd been about to sleep through it, but he was thoroughly awake now.

He rolled his shoulders under his armor and raised his shield back into a ready position. "We should clear the ghouls out as best we can before we go hunting for…whatever's down here. I don't want to get attacked from behind." He hesitated, glancing at the felhound as it sprang to its feet and licked gore from the coarse fur beneath its jaw. "Send your demon in first."

Callista's mouth quirked at the corner, but she didn't comment on his decision. Instead she jerked her chin at one of the dark lanes between crates, and the felhound bounded from the circle of lantern-light with an eager snarl. Its horn-topped shoulders scraped the barrels on either side as it wriggled through, and he wondered if the beast would have trouble turning to fight. He had no doubt it would manage in the end, but he wondered how much other people's property it would maul in the process.

He shook his head. This time he waited, giving the felhound several heartbeats' head start before striding after it into the gap. His shadow stretched long and black ahead of him, slithering up boxes and over barrels as Callista followed with the lantern. He could hear her soft breathing and the clink of Wynda's armor behind in the silence.

A low growl and the crack of wood splintering sounded from somewhere up ahead. His instinct – born of a time when duty meant drawing danger away from those more helpless than himself – was to run towards the battle, but he held himself in check. There were no wounded or weary villagers behind him now, just a pair of colleagues who could look after themselves. That demon didn't need his help either.

A chorus of snarls, one bestial and the rest ragged with undeath, another loud snap and something shattered like glass.

"Oooh, that sounded expensive," Callista observed.

"Should we go after it?" he wondered, grimacing as the growls and glass-like crunching continued.

She laughed. "To help Jhormug? Absolutely not. What's the Light's take on letting merchants die of apoplexy?"

Aren knew he shouldn't encourage her. He was sure the proper response was a humorless remark on holy doctrine, but he and so many of his order had lived under a pall of old guilt for so long that something about her gleeful unrepentance was catching. He smiled involuntarily in the dark, and the words were out before better judgment caught up with his mouth. "Blessed are the poor?"

Her genuine chortle of surprised laughter was worth Wynda's disbelieving snort.

He stepped around a twist in the passage, kicking aside a coil of rope the felhound had tangled in its headlong rush. Lantern-light glittered iridescent from the smashed remnants of what looked to have been wine decanters, smeared with black gore. A pair of mangled corpses lay in the middle of the decimated crate, but the demon appeared to have taken its rampage elsewhere.

"Quel'thalas," Wynda grunted, flipping one of the larger splinters over with her boot to read the markings.

"Told you it sounded expensive," Callista said. She looked subtly amused at the mess, running her sole over the broken glass so it tinkled like chimes.

Wynda shoved the most jagged pieces aside disapprovingly with the head of her hammer. "Blasted goblins shouldn't be ferrying Horde goods on a ship chartered by Stormwind anyway."

Aren brushed past Callista on his way back into the lead, ears pricked for more sounds of fighting from up ahead, then flinched as an eerie howl rose to fill the whole hull. Light, that demon could make some awful sounds. He probably would've ignored it as another of its quirks, but he was close enough to the warlock to see her face pale a shade beneath the lantern's glow.

"Uh-oh," she muttered.

"It found it, didn't it?" he asked quietly, not needing to see her nod to know it was true.

The screech of tearing wood, something metal clattered and tumbled down to the planks and more unearthly baying rose from the felhound, though the noise seemed to be moving away.

Callista narrowed her eyes as she focused on something distant, closing the shutters on the lantern so only a sliver of light bled through. "Jhormug will try to lead it away, but eventually it will corner him or turn. What do you want to – "

Creaks and thumps echoed from behind them, as though some thing or things had stumbled down the stairs at a run.

"Twisting  _Nether_!" she breathed vehemently.

Wynda turned, dipping one armored shoulder back the way they'd come, and the first ghoul to scrabble though the narrow gap between crates met a powerful blow of her warhammer with its head. It crumpled to a black-stained pile of carrion and didn't move again.

Light blazed from the head of her hammer, dimming the lantern's weak fire and burning away shadows as more ghouls crowded into the passage, clawing each other in their frenzy to tear flesh.

Aren was sickened by the sight. These weren't the desiccated and salt-streaked corpses from that poor doomed relic of Lordaeron, these bodies were fresh; their flesh was still plump and mostly whole and red blood soaked damp into their clothes. It made the blind hunger in their gnashing teeth even more terrible, and he tried not to look at the faces for fear he'd recognize the twisted visage of someone he'd once smiled at in the galley.

Wynda met the charge without faltering, the force of her Light-touched swings snapping bones and sinew and driving the ghouls back, aided in no small part by the fact the gap was too small to allow more than two to squeeze through at a time. Unfortunately, it was also too small to allow Aren or Callista to lend her much help.

Aren winced as another howl split the air.

"I've got this lot!" Wynda panted between hammer blows. A corpse stumbled over the wreck of one of its fellows, and she used the pause to crush the neck of another felled ghoul with her plated boot heel. "Go find that fiend before its yelping turns my head to pudding."

Callista barked a laugh, then looked at the shuttered lantern in her hand before setting it down onto a crate. "I'm leaving you the light. Follow when you can."

Aren glanced once back at Wynda – still standing firmly as stone – then instinctively reached out to grab Callista's arm as she pressed past him. "Wait!"

He didn't notice her palm against his breastplate until she shoved gently, and then he was suddenly surprised by how tall she was – even this close, she only had to tilt her head a little to meet his eyes.

"You can't go first if you don't know where we're going," she pointed out, sliding her fingers beneath his gauntleted ones to pry his hand off her arm.

That was true, and he was sure she was better able to track her own familiar than he was, but sending an unarmored woman first through a maze stalked by ravenous monsters still sat ill with him. He released her reluctantly. "Just be – "

The howl this time was different. Not a warning, but something dark and pleased and vicious, the fel-tainted ancestor of every wolf-cry that ever drove fear into the night.

Some old half-buried instinct urged Aren to cower, while another, fresher, told him to get up and run with the hunt. He didn't realize he'd bared his teeth until Callista's laugh broke the spell.

A fist-sized ball of orange flame hovered near her shoulder, and though it illuminated the amusement in her smile, beneath it was something darker. Veiled savagery lit her eyes, and what ties did demon-pacts bind to their makers, anyway?

"Felhounds don't like to flee," she said, flicking her gaze towards the sound with fierce satisfaction. "They'd rather hunt."

He suspected they weren't the only ones.

The ball of fire danced before them as they slipped between piles of cargo, Callista in the lead and Aren almost treading on her heels as he tried to stay close enough to yank her behind his shield in case of an attack. Sweat from his earlier exertions dried cool against his skin, and he fought a shiver, as much from the chill as the fading sounds of combat behind them. Wynda was good, but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned. He wondered how Vorthaal and the twins were doing looking for the crew. Hopefully their disturbance in the hold had drawn most of their enemies downward and away from the search.

The felhound hadn't made another sound since that last blood-stirring howl, but Callista seemed sure of her route, squeezing around crates that protruded from the stacks easily without bulky armor to impede her. Her floating fireball didn't illuminate very far around the twists in the passage, and he wished she'd slow down a little. They'd never notice any ghouls until they were right on top of –

Callista's alarmed hiss jolted him, and he reacted on instinct, shouldering past her and angling his shield across the gap as he felt something fiery cold sear along the edge of his gauntlet. He flinched, and only long training kept him from dropping his sword at the sudden pain. He leveled the tip at where he'd caught a glimpse of the white-lit eyes of a ghoul, then lowered it in surprise as the fireball's bobbing light allowed him a better look at it. Or rather, what was left of it. Half its head had been burned away as though dipped in acid, decayed flesh still smoking around the blasted hole where its face should have been.

"Are you insane?"

He turned sheepishly at Callista's expostulation, flexing his stinging fingers to confirm there was no real damage. "Maybe." He hesitated, looking again at the corroded mess that had once been a ghoul's head, and repressed a shiver as he pictured his own flesh in its place. "Sorry. I never served much with mages, not even in...not even before. It...takes some getting used to."

She scowled at him, the chains of runes on her robes pulsing brighter after the sudden flare of magic. "Just because I'm not wearing half an armory doesn't mean I need to be rescued." She jabbed a finger at the sizzling wreck of the ghoul's skull. "That could've been you!"

The ring and pinky fingers of his right gauntlet had been etched black by her spell (thank the Light the blessings had held), and he tried surreptitiously to rotate his hand so she wouldn't notice how close a call he'd actually had.

It was a mistake; the movement only drew her gaze. "Twisting Nether, doesn't that hurt? I hope it – no, never mind, I hope it  _does_ ," she said, narrowing her eyes on the dark burn.

Aren wasn't sure if he should be offended by that or not. On the one hand, it was a rather harsh thing to say to someone who had, after all, been acting in good faith, but on the other he thought he actually sensed a flicker of concern beneath her scolding. Then again, maybe her only concern was not facing a court-martial for striking her commanding officer from behind if he leaped in front of another of her spells. "It doesn't," he said mulishly, "but it won't happen again."

"Good." She seemed satisfied with that, turning and picking her way carefully around the mutilated corpse. "Come on, and for Light's sake, stop stepping on my heels."

So, she'd noticed that too. Repressing another sheepish look, he followed at a more prudent distance, flattening himself out against a crate to navigate a particularly tight corner.

He jumped as something cracked like a river in a flash freeze, and the felhound's growl rumbled from ahead just as a protruding nail snagged one of the joins in his breastplate. He muttered an oath as it jerked him up short then screeched free of the wood after a moment's sharp tugging.

Even that brief delay was enough to allow Callista to vanish from sight around a turn. He jogged faster to catch up, hairs on his neck rising as the felhound's snarls became more insistent and a tense frisson of magic surged in the air.

The red glimmer of runes caught his eye as he contorted around a turn, and he pulled up just as Callista's arm shot out across his chest to stop him.

She held a finger to her lips for silence, then jerked her head farther down the passage.

Aren nodded and edged carefully past her to take a look, crouching behind a pyramid of lashed-together kegs to lower his profile. What he saw on its other side drew a disgusted grimace.

The cargo had been cleared up ahead in a crooked circle, gaps that led to the rest of the hold winding from it like the spokes of a deformed wheel. Callista's felhound growled near the entrance roughly across, teeth bared and muscles bunched as though gathering for a leap, but it was trapped in its spring by a block of glistening ice that sheathed its entire hindquarters. There was nothing it could do but snap and snarl hatefully at its tormentor, visible to Aren only as a hunched, thin figure in tattered purple robes. The Eye of Dalaran, smudged and spotted with mold, stared at him from its back.

All this was revealed by the sickly violet light that arced from the necromancer's hands. It struck the felhound in its exposed chest and forelegs, scouring its flesh away in a welter of blood and pitted bone before the demon's natural affinity for magic kicked in, draining the power to rebuild its decayed flesh only to have it ripped away again. One of its forelegs collapsed as death magic overwhelmed demonic regeneration, and it pitched forward, only to stagger up again with a baleful growl as its tendons reknitted.

Aren had never had any love for demons, but the sight made him ill anyway. He backed up quietly to where Callista waited and moved close to her ear to whisper. "Hit it with whatever you have and I'll move in after. If it's still alive, use any openings you see."

Her eyes were grey and hard as flint as she looked at him. "Alright. But if I tell you to get out of the way…"

The anger lacing her voice didn't actually appear to be directed at him, and Aren was struck by a sudden thought: that demon was bound to her. Could she feel what was happening to it? The idea was horrifying. He lifted his gauntlet to show her the black scorch mark. "Once was enough."

She nodded, and her mouth twitched in a faint smile. She let him go first this time, slipping in behind him and dimming her floating fireball to a bright spark.

It wasn't necessary anyway, the glow of spell-light bright enough to throw tortured shadows from the cargo around them.

A staticky shiver ran across his skin as Callista began gathering whatever magic she meant to unleash, and Aren reflexively tightened his fingers around the pommel of his sword. He'd never liked mage battles. Those few he'd seen counted as some of his worst memories of war, cowering in the muddy crater of an infernal strike with a handful of frightened people as the world shook around them and the sky rained fire. Whether the combatants were true mages or the demonic warlocks of the Burning Legion made small difference in the end; the forces they loosed on the battlefield couldn't be fought by anyone without magical or divine assistance, and ranks of common soldiers, no matter how experienced or well-trained, became little more than collateral damage.

He ducked back down behind the roped pile of kegs as Callista slipped to one side of it, shadows with the toxic sheen of oil twisting around her arms.

Purple light still flared from the necromancer's spell. Aren stared at the stained sigil of the Eye on his robes and felt cold anger well up within him. Once of Dalaran and now a servant of the undead – those refugees would've been so relieved to find a mage of the Violet Citadel on board, when he'd probably loaded that plagued grain into the hold himself.

A roar like the howl of a firestorm assaulted his ears, but there was no light. Aren flinched and crouched down farther as shadow that danced and clawed like flame engulfed the robed figure and obliterated the purple glow.

The necromancer gave a hoarse yell that quickly burbled off, and after that there was nothing but silence and blackness as Aren shoved away from the barrels with sword bared and sprang for where he'd seen him fall. Dark blinded him, but it didn't matter; he raised his blade, and suddenly light blazed as Callista's fireball rose to hover near the ceiling like a miniature sun.

His sword swept down towards the neck of the crumpled figure just as it turned its head to reveal the washed-out glow of ghostlight in its eyes. "Paladin," it sneered as it raised a tattered hand.

Something struck Aren in the chest like a giant mailed fist, and he flew backwards to crash into a crate in a flurry of splinters, disoriented and struggling to draw air into his bruised lungs. He coughed and choked as he groped for his sword, watching in growing horror as the necromancer lurched to his feet.

The warlock's spell had flayed away all the flesh on his right side and jaw, leaving nothing but bile-stained bone and the white gleam of teeth. That same spell still had hold of him, and shadow like dark fire clung to his chest as it ate away skin and the frayed fabric of his robes. The rank smell of seared and rotten meat fouled the air and made Aren's coughing worse.

"Ah, a colleague," the necromancer said, pulling the remaining flesh of his face up into a ghastly smile. A hoarse whistling accompanied his speech, and Aren realized with disgust that the demon-spell had vaporized his right lung.

"Absolutely not," Callista sneered. She stood to Aren's right near the gap they'd entered from, the glyphs on her robes smoldering. As he watched, she clenched her fist and the shadowy fire flickering from the necromancer's chest leapt hungrily, drawing another choked gurgle.

Her eyes widened in alarm as, instead of falling, he gave a raspy laugh. "Not very civil."

He waved a ravaged hand and an icy gale swept into the room, freezing Aren's breaths into white clouds as frost grew like shimmering mold from the necromancer's bones. The shadows devouring him ebbed and died as though smothered.

Callista uttered a sharp curse in a harsh language, and the necromancer laughed at her again. "Your demon-speech won't give  _me_ pause, warlock. The Scourge no longer kneels to the Legion."

Breathing finally stabilized, Aren gained his feet and shook splinters from his shield. Anger at being so easily flung aside steeled him, dulling the pain in his bruised muscles. "No one wants to see you _kneel_."

He made it within two sword-lengths of the necromancer before lambent dead eyes swept over him dismissively. "Oh. You again."

He caught movement at the edge of his vision and spun. His blade caught the ghoul across its throat, the blessed steel slicing through its neck far more easily than it would've uncorrupted flesh, and the ghoul's head toppled as momentum caused its body to slam into Aren's knees.

He barely kept from stumbling, and it was good he did because ghouls began boiling into the cleared space from one of the gaps between crates, scraping bloodless chunks of their own flesh off against the sides in their eagerness to devour. Hoarse moans tore from their throats as they reached for him.

The best way to keep from being overwhelmed by a charge was to push back even harder; this was why Aren favored the sword and shield over the two-handed warhammer wielded by many of his fellows. He leaned back on his heels, waiting until the grasping corpses were almost on top of him before surging forward while slamming upward with his shield.

The impact jarred through his arm to rattle his teeth painfully. The ghouls, too mindless to brace themselves for the blow, were thrown sprawling back a step, a step Aren quickly closed as he hacked down with his sword and used the edge of his shield as a bludgeon, shattering bones and severing vital muscle. This was another difference between fighting living enemies versus the Scourge: mortals bled out, went into shock, took losses so heavy they surrendered, but every battle with undead was decided only by attrition. And the only way to destroy them was to break their skulls or dismember them so thoroughly they could no longer fight.

He thrust out again with his shield, forearm going numb as a ghoul crashed into the metal and was flung outwards. It tumbled over the planks until it skidded into the still-imprisoned felhound, which bit down on its head and shoulder and  _shook_ , ripping it in two across the collarbone.

Aren noticed in a brief flash before he spun away that both the felhound's tentacles were fastened to the ice that held it, which was looking more and more insubstantial as the demon's wounds healed.

One of the ghouls he'd crippled in his first charge latched onto his greave, driving bony fingers into the gap behind his knee and trying to pry the armor apart. Aren kicked backwards with his plated boot, snapping its fingers and knocking it away as another leapt and met the point of his sword through one glowing eye.

The light flickered and changed hue crazily, magic sizzling the air as the warlock and necromancer exchanged spells behind him. Hard pressed as he was, Aren could only watch in confusing glimpses – swaths of shadowflame parting neatly around the mangled undead, dark energy ricocheting off a felfire-shot shield to crumble a barrel as though it'd been rotting for a hundred years – he leapt back with a cry as green flames roared in pincer-like arcs to converge on the necromancer, heat searing his face and incinerating the legs of the ghoul whose claws he'd been parrying.

He scuttled instinctively backwards away from the blaze, then toppled hard to the deck as desiccated arms latched around his knees and shoved. The impact tore his sword from his grasp and he kicked wildly, trying to dislodge the ghoul pinning him and barely avoiding the rank jaws of the one lunging for his face. Broken teeth and breath like rotting meat – he lashed out with both gauntleted hands, seizing the decayed head between them and twisting sharply. As the ghoul tumbled from his vision, he noticed three things – the felhound was gone, Callista's felfire had burned through the planks to the glimmering bligewater beneath, and the necromancer was still standing, indifferent to the flames that seared the last of his flesh from his bones in charred curls.

"Fool," he said, voice clear and contemptuous despite the lack of throat. Cold steam issued from his jaws to boil into nothing against the green pillar of flame that raged around him. "The dreadlord Dalvengyr himself chained me to this life. The flesh was just a temporary conceit."

Dalvengyr? Aren knew that name.  _The clash of steel, horses screaming in pain. Mud and broken stalks of corn, the hitched breathing of the injured man leaning on his shoulder, rain streaming past his face. They'd been routed. The Scourge had been joined by demons, they'd torn open Sir Conrad's leg and the tourniquet was loose and they needed to get back to the others, oh, Light, the ones they'd left.._.  _Blinking back rain, he half-dragged the man at his side through the muddy graveyard that had once been a cornfield. Jagged stalks reached up to trip them, and he grabbed for his sword with his free hand as heard voices up ahead. Human voices. He dropped his hand from his hilt and almost called out, but his relief turned to bile as he registered their words._

Cultists.

" _They've started burning their dead, and it's thinning our ranks. Lord Dalvengyr won't be pleased – "_

A searing pain in the soft flesh behind his knee wrenched him back to the present. He kicked hard and felt his boot connect with something solid that snapped on impact. The crushing force shackling his leg faltered and he flopped over onto his back, slicing downward with the edge of his shield to hammer back the broken-armed ghoul crouched over him.

Callista laughed behind him, but the defiance in it was strained and she breathed heavily in her pauses. "Dalvengyr? The Alliance kicked his carcass back to the Nether in pieces. I think it's time you joined him…"

"Your little campfire barely warms my bones." Ice-laden wind shrieked between the towers of crates, and a shard laid open Aren's cheek with a burst of agonizing cold as the green felfire glare blew out like a snuffed candle. "Kneel, mortal, and maybe I'll leave some fragment of your mind intact when I turn you."

The words chilled him. Was she all right? He couldn't tell, she sounded pressed but he didn't have time to look – Aren struck downwards again with the edge of his shield as he sat up, the bottom crushing through the undead's sparsely-haired skull in a spray of black blood. He scrambled to his feet and whirled, looking for his dropped sword, then backpedaled in dismay as the ghoul crouched over the weapon let out a ragged growl.

Callista scoffed.

Aren was facing her now, and drew a sharp breath at the way one of her arms hung limp at her side, blood trickling down her temple where she'd failed to deflect an ice shard.

She edged slowly back towards a gap in the crates, and despite the fitful guttering of the felfire around her working hand, she still managed a convincing sneer. "I've heard better."

Maybe she had, but Aren could tell in a glance that she was finished.

Another pack of ghouls emerged from the shadows, deeper now that Callista's illuminating fireball had begun to wane with her strength, and spread out to circle him like hungry wolves. Aren swung his shield around, trying to keep as many of them as possible on his protected side, but the effort was useless. Their jerky movements were coordinated, deliberate, obviously directed by the necromancer that was advancing on Callista even now, and why would he hurry? He would kill her and turn them both, then overwhelm anyone left alive upstairs…

Fury roared up in him at the thought, its violence surprising even himself as his already ragged breaths came faster and his fingers clenched inside his gauntlet. He'd failed before, let this happen to others, but no, not now, not ever again – the ghouls rushed at him as one and he struck out savagely with his shield and his fist. Bones snapped and rancid flesh tore beneath his blows, but there were too many this time. Their cool rotten weight bore him down and he slammed to the planks, nose filled with the scent of blood and decay and armor ringing under the assault of bony claws. He lashed out, trying to fling them loose, but they were too strong and the angle was bad. Ragged teeth snapped at his face, wafting cold breath across his cheek, and in desperate rage, he reached out for the Light.

Not the humble plea of a healer this time – this was a prayer that bordered on a demand, and the power that blazed forth in answer was not gentle.

Golden shafts of Light speared up through the planks around him, drowning the weak flicker of the fireball and searing through undead flesh like avenging flame. Ghouls writhed and died for the final time, bodies dissolving into bright dust as the fel magic that shackled them was purged and left nothing in its wake.

The hands grasping at him withered away and Aren stumbled to his feet, ethereal chimes both sweet and terrible echoing in his ears as the wrath of the Light poured through him. He could feel his grip on it faltering (and how could it not, its judgment was so pure and his own faith so flawed), and the golden radiance died as his will buckled under its torrent.

For one long breath, nothing moved.

Callista stared at him, then at the scoured scatter of bones that had once been a pack of ghouls, then back again as though he'd grown a collection of extra heads.

The necromancer had backed away from the purifying radiance, but now he advanced on Aren. An icy glow suffused the empty holes of his eyes as he moved to the nearest of the gaps Callista's flame had seared in the planks and gazed across it. The blackened strips of flesh still clinging to his skull made the sight even more ghastly than a true skeleton would've been, and the gristle around his mouth twisted in a gruesome shadow of a sneer. "Perhaps I'll end you first after all."

Aren's hands shook, beneath his armor his leathers were drenched with sweat and his head felt light. His sword…he needed to pick it up, but he could never reach it before the necromancer cast whatever twisted spell he had in mind, and if he had to die here he would do it on his feet.

Black energies swirled in the necromancer's skeletal hands, and the temperature of the hold dropped abruptly, a bitter, oily cold that rimed Aren's armor with frost. He raised his shield, inscriptions shining brightly against the chill of unholy magic, but when he reached out towards the Light once more for protection his will faltered, exhausted, and the weak glow he'd managed faded as his vision swam.

He bowed his head behind his shield and breathed one last prayer for forgiveness.

Braced for blistering pain, Aren found himself flinching as a warm gust of wind brushed his face like a benediction and the necromancer howled with rage.

He lowered his shield, startled, and gaped in amazement as the necromancer struggled with his own black skeins of power, now clearly out of control. They cracked through the air like livid whips, one winding up his bony arm and leaving pitted bone and spars of ice in its wake, and the temperature fluctuated wildly as death magic ebbed and surged.

A ball of green fire crackled through the air. It burst against the frozen and spell-decayed bones, shattering the necromancer's arm below the elbow, and he howled again, waving his remaining hand frantically to quell his wayward spell.

Callista. He didn't know what she'd done, but she'd fouled his magic somehow and now he was distracted.

Aren lunged, finally, for his dropped sword, collapsing to his knees as his hand closed around the hilt. He braced his shield against the planks and used it as a crutch to rise again, arm shaking with weariness as he leveled the blade at his enemy.

The necromancer teetered perilously close to one of the blackened holes in the deck, the glitter of dark bilgewater below broken only by the massive wooden beam that formed the spine of the hold, and Aren framed a silent prayer of thanks that it hadn't burned through and crumpled the entire ship like a paper toy.

Callista bared her teeth savagely, another fireball already growing in the palm of her working hand, and though her other arm still hung limp at her side, the exhaustion that had burdened her posture earlier had vanished. It occurred to him in a moment of surprised clarity that the woman had been  _faking_.

The fireball exploded against the back of the necromancer's skull and clung there, green flame eating down along the vertebrae, and Aren used the distraction to draw his sword back and edge closer, trying to steady his trembling muscles enough to strike at the blue glow in the monster's ribcage.

A rope of black energy snapped at his face, and he stumbled back, raising his shield.

The dark vortex of the necromancer's loose spell dissipated as he recovered control. He whirled immediately on Callista, the blue lights in his eyes flaring with rage, and an icy bolt of arcane magic rocketed from his hand even before he'd spun all the way around. "Legion  _bitch_!" he snarled.

He'd been toying with them before, reveling in his power over what he'd thought to be helpless adversaries, but now he was furious. Ice re-glazed his fingers even before his first spell had struck its target, spinning into a sapphire-hearted ball even larger than the one before.

Callista barely deflected the first bolt with an iridescent net of shadow. Several of its skeins vaporized on impact, and even as it writhed around to catch the next blow, Aren knew it wouldn't hold.

He raised his sword and crouched to leap over the charred hole in the planks, but his legs still trembled with exhaustion and he knew he couldn't make it in time, the pounding of his heart in his ears was unbearable –

Something metallic clanked in time with the throbbing, and he realized with a start that it wasn't his heart at all.

Wynda sprinted past him in a rush of red hair and silver armor, plated boots hammering the deck as she roared something incomprehensible in Dwarven and leapt the gap to barrel into the necromancer in a flying tackle.

His spell went wild, sheathing a roped cask with ice, and he slammed to the deck beneath a furious burden of dwarf and metal. Wynda's hammer was nowhere in sight and so she simply pummeled him with her gauntleted fists, still bellowing what Aren was sure was a litany of curses in her native tongue as they rolled across the deck.

The necromancer had been taken wholly by surprise, skidding helplessly beneath her in a tangle of flesh-streaked bones, but as their slide scraped to a halt a dangerous blue glow began coursing around him once again.

Callista cupped her uninjured hand around her mouth to yell as they finally ground to rest directly above the massive crossbeam that supported the hold, Wynda still pounding her fists against the corpse's frost-crusted bones. "Wynda! Get away from him!  _Now_ , Wynda,  _move_!"

Aren wasn't sure if she was heeding Callista's shout or if she'd simply noticed the ice beginning to layer ominously across the metal of her gauntlets, but she rolled off the thrashing necromancer and onto her feet, leaping back over the gap in the planks to land at Aren's side, panting heavily.

She barely made it – wood rasped and screeched above their heads, and just as the necromancer scrabbled up with a murderous howl, a steel-banded crate plummeted from the stacks overhead. Its reinforced edge crashed through his ribcage and pinned him against the deck in a welter of splinters. The felhound tumbled down on top of it, twisting in the air to land on its horned paws and lunging immediately for the necromancer's free arm.

The undead was down but not destroyed, and his teeth ground furiously as the air froze once again and blades of ice began whirling in gusts. The felhound bit down, wrenching the arm off with a snap, but the deadly storm continued to build.

"Twisting Nether,  _cut its head off already_!" Callista yelled, the runes on her robes blazing furiously as she stamped her foot in agitation.

Her voice cut through Aren's numb shock, and he jumped the gap clumsily with sword raised, jamming his shield against the planks to keep from toppling backwards. The skin of his face immediately froze, breath coming in white gasps as he looked into the necromancer's empty blue eyes.

The monster laughed, and even though his face was too ravaged to show emotion he could hear the sneer in his voice. "You lost your kingdom because you were  _weak_  –"

His sword whistled down, inscriptions flaring as it severed his neck beneath the first vertebra. The unearthly cold faded with the glow in the necromancer's eyes, but Aren kept swinging his blade even as feeling began stinging back into his face, ignoring the fatigued burn of his muscles until the skull was no more than a pile of chipped bone. He might've kept swinging it forever, until the bones were dust and the planks hacked to splinters and the fire in his arms seared away the things he never wanted to remember so cleanly even his own conscience couldn't find them, but after one last blow his legs finally buckled under him.

He fell to his knees with a clatter of armor, resting his forehead against the hilt of his sword and drawing breath in choked gasps.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

"Everyone alright?" Wynda finally asked from behind him.

Aren took one last deep breath and exhaled it slowly. He nodded against the rough leather of his hilt, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again. The necromancer was dead, and so was everything that had gone before. They would all be alright. "Just a few bruises." He winced at the hoarseness of his voice, suddenly embarrassed at his own lapse in self-control. "I'll be fine."

Callista answered next, and this time he didn't think the tired dullness in her words was feigned. "My shoulder's dislocated. Nothing fatal, though."

Wynda clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "For Light's sake, lass, sit down. You look like you're about to keel over. And quit poking at that arm!"

Someone settled heavily to the planks at his side, and Aren lifted his head to see Callista, legs sprawled towards the splintered bones of the necromancer and arm still held at that awkward angle. One side of her face was smeared with blood where it had run down from the cut in her forehead, but it was already scabbing over and that kind of wound always looked worse than it was. She arched a brow dryly at his inspection.

"You planned that," he said with just a touch of accusation, jerking his chin at the crate pinning the lifeless bones. He didn't know whether to be impressed, or annoyed at her for leaving him in the dark.

She laughed. "Not very well. I couldn't get it to walk over that wretched beam."

Aren looked at the way the metal edge of the crate had torn up the planks into a bristle of long splinters. If it had hit anywhere else, it probably would've dragged its target straight through to the bilge, with the battle following swiftly after. "Lucky," he muttered.

"One of my better traits." She leaned her cheek to the side to try to smear some of the blood off against the pauldron of her robes, then winced as the movement jarred her injured shoulder.

"I can set that for you," he said. He laid his sword down carefully to one side, then slipped off his shield and put that down too. His arms felt very light afterwards, contrasting oddly with the exhausted heaviness he felt everywhere else. Adrenaline had carried him through the end of the fight, but his muscles were sore and bruised from abuse, and the blaze of the Light through his body had left him feeling hollow and out of touch. He thought if he were to lie down on the planks now, he might not wake up until they reached Auberdine.

"Lend me your sword, lad," Wynda said. "I want to take a poke around, and I don't trust that those brutes are all dead."

Her words stirred him from his tired haze. That twisted mage was destroyed, but this wasn't over. The blood on the decks upstairs. Everything trapped behind that ice wall the magister raised. And what had become of the rest of his company? Concern rippled through him, and he struggled not to show how much the thought of more fighting wearied him. "You're right." He tugged off one of his gauntlets and dropped it with a clank, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye. "The others. The twins and Vorthaal." He hesitated. "And Luciel. We have to go find them."

"Ach, oh no you don't," Wynda said, green eyes sharp with concern as she watched him attempt to stumble to his feet. "I'll go after them. You sit down. I've seen pails of new milk less white than you."

Aren hefted his sword by the hilt, tempted to take her offer and toss it to her across the gap, but he hesitated. "Are you sure  _you're_  alright?"

She snorted, crossing her plate-clad arms. Her armor was smeared with blood, but none of it was the right color to be hers, and the worst wound he could see was a nasty red bruise below her left eye. She still, he suspected, looked a great deal healthier than he did. " _I'm_  fine. And if either of you stands up again, I'll prove it by jumping on you even harder than I did that bony fiend."

He winced at the thought of her armor smacking into his sore body. "I don't think that will be necessary." Light, he'd been too stunned to think much of it at the time, but the woman had  _tackled_  a necromancer who was practically a lich and tried to beat him senseless with nothing but her fists. Wynda was usually as level-headed a second in command as one could ask for, but she was a true dwarven juggernaut when her blood was up.

Still feeling a nagging sense of guilt for not going with her but too drained to pursue the argument much longer, he tossed the sword so it clattered to the planks near her boots. "If you find any trouble…"

"Jhormug will go with you," Callista said. "If anything goes wrong we'll hear the howls."

"Aye, I daresay they'd hear that fiend in Alterac," she grumbled, eyeing the felhound as it leapt the gap to land lightly on the other side. "Well, get on with you, you Nether-spawned menace."

Aren wasn't sure how smart the demon was, if it understood her words or was just sensitive to tone, but it chose that moment to snarl at her, raising its long spiked hackles then bounding away as Callista narrowed her eyes at it.

Wynda shook her head disapprovingly after it. "This shouldn't be long. Look after yourselves." Picking up Aren's sword, she followed in the felhound's wake, soon vanishing among the shadowy piles of cargo.

The click of bone pieces caught Aren's attention, and he looked to the side to see Callista prodding the remains of the necromancer with her boot. Something glittered among the fragments, and as she toed the bauble close enough to her good hand to pick up, he identified it as a signet ring set with a large violet stone.

"Dalaran," she said as she turned the ring in her fingers, thumbing away the last dust of powdered bone. "They always think it's about who has the biggest fireball."

Aren managed a tired smile at that. Arcane inter-scholastic rivalries died hard, it seemed, even when one of the parties was Scourge and the other had been expelled years ago. He shook his head at himself as he noticed the way she grimaced as some small movement jogged her injured shoulder. "I can look at your arm now if you want. Fair warning: it's going to hurt, but the longer we leave it the worse it will be."

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but then began undoing the thin straps that held her pauldron in place with her other hand. The runes that curled along its embellishments had already begun to lose their crimson glow. "You can't just use some cantrip on it?"

"That might help the soreness, but it won't pop your shoulder back in."

She wrinkled her nose unhappily at the word 'pop.' "Ugh, Twisting Nether, this  _will_  hurt, won't it." She slid around to face him more squarely, providing better access to the injury. "Alright. Let's get it over with."

Aren removed his other gauntlet and began prodding gently around the joint of her shoulder, checking for any tears or chipped bone fragments that would make this more complicated. The fabric of her robes was smooth as silk beneath his touch, but far more resilient and with none of the shine. Every now and then his fingertips would tingle not-quite-unpleasantly as he brushed one of the runes, and he realized with a tinge of misgiving that many of them were demonic. Not that he really had any right to be surprised by that. Even so, he wasn't sure any of his blessings would've passed through these enchantments even if he hadn't been so drained.

She hissed and shot him an irritated look as he touched a particularly sore spot.

"All of your bones and tendons seem to be intact, which is good," he offered by way of explanation. "Here, make a fist."

The corner of her mouth twitched skeptically, but she did as he asked, and Aren closed his fingers firmly around her wrist.

"I'm going to rotate your arm. It will probably be painful, but once your shoulder pops back in, you'll know."

"Ugh, sounds pleasant."

He guided her wrist until her elbow was at a right angle, then began to push her fist carefully towards her chest. "You went to the Stormwind Academy, didn't you?" he asked, simply to distract her from the discomfort.

She nodded, watching his hand on her wrist closely. "Mmmm. School of Fire. But don't look for my name on the graduate rolls."

No, Aren knew better than that. The details of her expulsion had been included in the parchments the Dawn had given him on her, along with a smattering of other information. Actually, thinking of which… "If you don't mind my asking," he said, only half paying attention to his words as he pressed her fist into her chest and then began to pull it slowly back outwards again, "what in the Light possessed you to let an imp loose on the Academy grounds?"

She laughed, but it turned into a wince halfway through. "I think saying I  _let_  it is giving me too much cred– " She bit the word off halfway through, and for a moment Aren thought she was simply in too much pain to continue, but then he noticed the suspicious narrowing of her grey eyes. "How did you know about – ow! – about that?"

Aren frowned sheepishly at himself, rotating her arm as far to the side as it would go and then gently pressing it towards her chest again. He'd forgotten she'd never actually mentioned that to him – perhaps he hadn't chosen the best topic. "It was in the dossier the Argent Dawn gave me on you. There wasn't much," he added hastily as her glare sharpened. "Just name, occupation, references, and any evidence of, er…mischief."

She snorted at that, squeezing her eyes shut as he pulled her arm steadily outward once again. "Mischief? Please. Go on, call it what it is. They were looking for treason. Nice to know my city –  _ow_  – doesn't think I've joined the Legion after all." She hissed through her teeth, half in pain and half in relief, as Aren felt her arm slip back into place.

"Try to move it now," he said, bringing his fingers back to her shoulder and pressing firmly against the joint.

"Who were my references?" she wondered as she rolled her shoulder against his palm with a disgruntled expression. " _I_  certainly didn't ask for any."

Her muscles and tendons all seemed to be pulling smoothly beneath his fingers, and she didn't look to be in any more pain. His brow creased as he tried to remember the names he'd read, none of which had been familiar to him at the time. "Lord Windsor, Lord Duncan, Lord and Lady Devereux…"

"Oh, plaguing  _hells_!"

Her sudden curse startled him, and he glanced from her shoulder back to her face. In the short time they'd known each other, Aren had found the warlock's features to be remarkably expressive, and her current look of contempt was withering.

"It  _would_ be her, wouldn't it," she muttered. "Crocolisk-faced witch."

"Not a friend of yours?" Aren tried cautiously, dropping his hand from her shoulder.

"Not even close. Ugh, sorry," she said, dulling some of the edge in her voice. "I'm not angry at  _you_." She reached up a hand to scratch absently at her face, felt the dried blood that flaked away beneath her fingernails and wrinkled her nose, scrubbing at her cheek in irritation.

"It's alright," Aren said. He still felt sore and a little lightheaded, and was relieved she didn't want to pursue an argument with him. He found, to his own mild surprise, that he actually enjoyed her company when she wasn't turning every conversation into a verbal fencing match. "I know you didn't want any part of any of this."

"Well, it's amazing how little what I want sometimes has to do with what I get into," she muttered resignedly. She finally stopped rubbing at her scabbed cheek and wiped her hand off against her robes, apparently satisfied that the worst of the mess was gone.

She'd almost gotten it all, but not quite. Aren registered the streaked red fingerprint still on her face and reached out automatically to smear it off for her. He didn't think more fully about what he was doing until his thumb brushed her jaw and he felt her head turn beneath his touch.

Her eyes flicked from his face to his hand, and though he couldn't quite place her expression (if he was forced to describe it, he would've put it somewhere between surprised and skeptical), he still suddenly felt intensely awkward. Why in Uther's name had he believed that that was appropriate? At least she didn't look angry.

He pulled his hand away sheepishly, turning it to show her his thumb. "Ah, you had blood on your face."

She raised a brow, expression shifting more towards the skeptical by the moment, and looked at him as though trying to decide if he was mad or just ridiculous. "More than you do?"

He touched his face, feeling the crust that had dried between his skin and his cheekguard, and felt, if possible, even more embarrassed. "Probably not."

She looked at him a moment longer and then laughed, rubbing the heels of her hands briefly against her eyes. When she glanced up at him again, her smile held nothing more unpleasant than amusement, and maybe something he could almost believe, in a wry, sideways sort of way, was affectionate.

Aren decided he had no regrets after all.


	9. Aftermath

Firelight glittered from the purple stone in the signet ring near Callista's feet, and she eyed the splintered skeleton it had belonged to warily. A mage of Dalaran, and then a lich raised by one of the Scourge's original masters…her pride would have her believe that under different circumstances she could've won that duel, but despite her natural self-assurance she suspected it wasn't true. He'd been more experienced than she, with magics tailored specifically to enslave the living. Likely the best she could've hoped for would be to force him to annihilate her so thoroughly there'd be nothing left to raise.

She gave a disgusted shudder at the thought, rubbing absently at her shoulder. Not because of the dislocation – Sir Aren had been true to his word when he said he could help the pain – but because of the three round scars that darkened the skin beneath her robes, relic of a doomguard's claws and the last time she'd overestimated her own powers. Ever since her return from Xoroth, she'd looked on more familiar dangers with a jaded eye. She'd just been sharply reminded that Azeroth had perils all its own, and not all of them could be dismissed so easily.

Which was why she was now sitting on the cold wooden floor of the hold, flicking her gaze suspiciously between the impenetrable shadows of the crates around them and the pile of shattered bones. "How long?" she wondered, narrowing her eyes at it.

Armor clinked to her left as Sir Aren shifted position. His face was still drawn and too-pale, a whiteness only exaggerated by the blood and black ichor that smeared his forehead and clung to the blond stubble around his cheekguards. "What?"

"If that thing – " she jerked her chin at the chipped skeleton " - was really a lich. How long until it comes back?"

To his credit, Sir Aren didn't look surprised at the idea; he just rubbed the heel of his hand briefly against his eye. "I don't know. Maybe never, if its phylactery was on that ship you burned."

Somehow, Callista doubted they were that lucky. She didn't know much about liches, but ripping your own soul out and hiding it in a jar seemed a little pointless if you were just going to carry the thing around with you anyway. "Did you ever fight one before?"

"No." He hesitated, studying the engraving on the back of one vambrace for a moment before continuing. "Before the war, I was a city guard. Not a soldier. When the Prince burned the city, we fled south with anyone we could save, tried to stay away from the battlefields as well as we could." He laughed shortly. "It didn't always work, but at least we never saw any liches, thank the Light."

Callista just looked at him. 'When the Prince burned the city…' Twisting Nether, she'd known he'd been from Lordaeron, but  _Stratholme_? She'd thought no one had survived the purges. But then, she'd been younger during the war, safely ensconced in the high towers of the Stormwind Academy and more concerned with the fel magic she'd begun dabbling in than the plight of distant kingdoms.

"Did you?" he asked suddenly. "Ever see a lich before, I mean."

She shook her head. "No, I never had much to do with the Scourge." Luckily. Nether, she hated undead. She'd take demons first any day.

He was watching her more closely now, eyes scrutinizing beneath the silver of his helm. "I probably should've asked you this much earlier, but was this your first battle?"

She laughed, though not unkindly. No wonder he'd leapt between her and that ghoul. Not that it was really his fault; if the Argent Dawn had any idea what kind of fights she'd seen and where, they'd never have picked her for this mission. "Not even close. There are no Scourge in Outland, but plenty of demons." She paused, trying to decide what she could say without revealing too much or lying too egregiously. "No liches, but I did see an eredar warlock once. And a pitlord. That's almost as bad."

"'Almost?'" he echoed disbelievingly. "There's no record of you enlisting with any of the armies in Outland. And you said you weren't a mercenary. Don't tell me you ran into those things by yourself?"

"No, of course not. I had…companions. One of them took care of it. Mostly."

Sir Aren's brows rose. "'Took care of it?' Just like that? You should've brought him with you."

Callista choked down a burst of laughter that would've been louder than she could've explained. She'd gotten enough filthy looks on this ship just for conjuring one measly little burst of felfire; imagine if she'd shown up with a dreadlord. "Oh, I'm not sure that would've helped. I don't think he likes paladins."

"Less than you do?"

Callista quirked a lip, eyeing him sidelong. She wasn't surprised he'd noticed, but she  _was_  surprised (and slightly amused) he'd take a shot at her. "I don't dislike paladins." It was only mostly a lie. "Just being roped into their disasters."

Sir Aren winced a little at that, glancing at the ichor stains and spell-shattered crates that surrounded them. "This wasn't supposed to be dangerous until we got to Kalimdor."

Before she could think of a reply to that (or at least, one that sounded less accusatory than what immediately came to mind), the dull clomp of many feet descending into the hold distracted her.

She climbed into a crouch with a low hiss, trying to will away some of the fatigue that weighted her limbs before standing. She wasn't quite finished yet, but if anything more threatening than a few ghouls came after them, she'd be in trouble.

At her side, Sir Aren lifted his shield into a ready position with a soft exhalation of breath. He'd been even more exhausted than she was before, and Callista didn't miss the way his arm wavered as he tilted the inscribed face of the shield at the dark. If anything more threatening than a few ghouls came after them, they would  _both_  be in trouble.

"Sir Aren! Callista!"

"Olly-olly-oxen-free!"

Wynda's familiar brogue and a gleeful yell that had to belong to Ander echoed through the hold.

Callista relaxed, pausing her mental run-through of the spells she thought she still had the will for, while Sir Aren lowered his shield to the planks with a  _thunk_.

"Over here!" he called back.

After a moment, Wynda squeezed her way through a gap in the crates with the two Redbranch brothers and Jhormug in tow. All of the mortals' armor was spattered with blood and dark gore, and Ander's leather vambraces both bore ragged sets of scratches, but aside from a few minor scrapes and the swelling below Wynda's eye none of them looked much worse for wear.

Ander gave a low whistle as he surveyed the smashed crates, angling his lantern to better examine the scoured piles of bones and the long pair of charred holes Callista had burned through the deck. "And I thought  _we_ made a mess."

" _You_  did," Nathanial grumbled, eyeing Jhormug warily as the felhunter loped past with his spiny hackles still half-raised.

Callista grabbed hold of one of the long horns that arced from the demon's shoulders as he edged up against her, more to reassure her companions than to actually restrain him. The residue of the Light that clung to the paladins and the remains Sir Aren had sanctified irritated the demon, but he couldn't turn on them without her permission.

"Well, luckily that captain is too happy not to be corpse-food to chuck us all overboard," Ander said cheerfully.

"Captain Verner survived?" Framed by the blood-smeared metal of his cheekguards, Sir Aren's face had composed itself once more into a commander's unruffled mask, but the relief in his voice was apparent. "What about the others?" The next pause was almost unnoticeable, but it was there. "Did you find Luciel?"

Wynda smiled. "Aye, lad, she's got a nasty leg wound, but she should recover. Vorthaal is looking after her." The smile faded from her face. "There were casualties among the crew, though, and more among the passengers. Mostly the ones who tried to flee upstairs during the first panic. It could've been worse, but still…"

Sir Aren nodded. "Alright." Wynda offered him his sword back hilt-first and he took it, sliding it carefully into the sheath at his hip. "Take me to Verner. We'll need to coordinate with his people to keep the passengers out of the way until the ship is cleaned up." He stooped to pick up the gauntlets he'd discarded to tend to her shoulder, and so Callista couldn't see if his expression changed as he added his next words. "And the funerals are arranged."

Uninterested in the logistics of wrangling skittish passengers, she absently rubbed the rough scales on the top of Jhormug's head, relieved the creature didn't seem to be taking undue interest in the necromancer's bones. If he'd truly been a lich, at least he didn't seem to be immediately going about resurrecting himself. She'd still feel better once they'd tossed what was left of him overboard. "Let's throw  _that_ one over first," she said, jerking a thumb at the heap of bones.

"I'll second that," Wynda said, gazing at the remains with distaste. "A swift boot over the rails will do for that fiend, and the sooner it is the better I'll feel."

"I agree, but we need to look after the living first." Sir Aren wiped the back of his hand across his forehead before looking to Callista. "Leave the demon here to watch?"

She hesitated, eyes narrowing imperceptibly. Not because she thought it wouldn't be safe (even an arch-lich would have trouble gathering its magic with a felhunter perched on its bony neck), but because she found the idea of another desperate battle rather  _less_ horrifying than the thought of trying to comfort a flock of sobbing widows (or whatever it was Sir Aren was so keen to start on upstairs). Then again, squatting in a dank hold that was beginning to smell nastily of carrion wasn't a very appealing option, either. "I suppose," she said doubtfully.

Jhormug laid down near the fractured skull at her silent command, tentacles searching even as he rested his snout on his horned paws.

She snuffed the fireball that had been providing most of the light and fell into line behind the glow of Ander's lantern.

" _I_  think we should take it with us," Ander confided to her as they squeezed sideways through the gaps in the cargo, "if only because you won't believe the color Verner's face turned when it ran up the stairs and started chewing on ghoul corpses if you never see it yourself. Kind of a purpley-reddish-green…"

Callista snickered, easily able to picture the captain's look of consternation at finding an actual demon aboard his ship, and an allied one, at that. "Where did you find the crew?"

"Barricaded in the galley. Between you all down here and that mage's ice wall, they were blocked off from the ghouls in the hold, but there were still plenty that climbed over the rails." He paused, and when he spoke again the usual cheer in his voice was subdued. "And the ones that turned after."

Callista grimaced, remembering the horrible mix of the familiar and the grotesque as faces she'd known in passing snarled at her with bloodstained teeth. "Yes, some of those came after us, too."

It was an unpleasant topic, and for a moment there was no sound but the crunch and tinkle of their footsteps as they walked over the glassware Jhormug had shattered.

"Tell her what you did," Nathanial said finally, turning around to peer at his brother and Callista with a mix of disapproval and amusement.

Since she was walking behind him, she couldn't see Ander's grin return, but she could hear it in his tone. "There was a huge tub of molasses heating near the galley stove. I smashed it in front of the door and caught about six of them like big smelly flies in glue."

Callista laughed, as much at the mischief in Ander's voice as at the imagery.

"Aye, and now I daresay in a day or two we'll have enough real flies as well," Wynda said dryly.

Ander sniffed playfully. "You people don't appreciate military genius."

The sounds of the passengers on the upper decks echoed down as they neared the stairs. Footsteps and the low murmur of voices, mostly, but the occasional sob or wail or terse order struck Callista's ears and soured her lightening mood. They'd driven back the Scourge, but there would be no celebrating. She suspected she'd enjoy the aftermath of this battle even less than she'd enjoyed the fight itself.

Grey fingers of light reached weakly down around them as they mounted the stairs. Somewhere above, dawn was breaking, but by the array of tired and bewildered and tear-streaked faces that turned to them as they entered the corridor, there would be little joy to greet it.

* * *

Captain Verner's expression was even grimmer than the scar that marred his face usually made it look as Aren joined him near the bow. "Seven crew and nineteen passengers," he said without preamble. "Not including those we lost during the daylight attack."

Sailors scurried about the deck around them, scrubbing at bloodstains with long-handled brushes or laying forlorn-looking bundles wrapped in sailcloth out along the rail. Aren tried not to let his gaze linger on them. All the ghoul corpses had been heaved unceremoniously over the side, but there was to be a funeral later for those who had belonged to the ship.

The captain's words drew only a resigned nod. It was a sad tally, but given the surprise and ferocity of the attack, they were lucky there hadn't been more. "How many wounded?"

"Eleven total."

Aren stared at him in surprise. Only eleven? Usually the number injured in any battle was several times the number slain outright, especially when few of those involved were soldiers. "That's all?"

Verner smiled his lopsided smile, but there was no humor in the icy blue of his eyes. "They tried very hard to kill anything bleeding. I think our guest in the hold was short of troops." A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he turned and spat over the side.

Aren sympathized, averting his eyes. It was a bitter thing to be entrusted with the lives of others and then fail in that trust. It didn't matter if no reasonable person could have expected anything more; self-doubt was not a reasonable person, and recriminations from within were harsher and bit deeper to the heart than anything ever voiced aloud. "What are your plans, now? Some of the passengers have been asking to return to Stormwind…"

Verner shook his head tersely. "Two more days along this coast and then across to Kalimdor. Enough of the crew is fit to sail, and this isn't a pleasure cruise."

Aren's nod was neutral, but inwardly he was relieved. Even though he knew, logically, that the settlers he'd been sent to find had been missing for so long that another few weeks' delay would probably make little difference, he still felt a sense of urgency. And, if he were perfectly honest with himself, he was still hoping that Callista would change her mind about staying behind in Auberdine. Even more so since she'd proven she could keep her head in a fight. If they turned around now, he had no doubt he'd never see her again once she set foot on the Stormwind pier. "Where did you set up the infirmary? I want to look in on Luciel."

"Wounded are in the mess, but I think your friend's already been moved to her quarters." He regarded him a moment longer with those piercing pale eyes. "Thank you," he said finally. "That thing in the hold…we haven't sailed with soldiers or a ship's mage since the war ended. I don't know how we would've fared alone."

Aren dipped his head in acknowledgment. "We're glad we could put an end to it. Let me know if there's anything else we can do to help."

Verner grunted. "Your dwarf and that draenei have been down in the infirmary since the battle ended. Tell them to go get some sleep."

"I'll pass that along," Aren said with a slight smile.

The day was overcast, but the cool breeze that ruffled the waves was still refreshing after so long in the stuffy hold, and he found the industrious ring of voices comforting after the cries and panicked shrieks of the battle. Though the crew was sadly reduced, many of the passengers had volunteered to help with nursing or cleanup. It wouldn't be long before  _The Fortitude_  was ready to resume her voyage.

The clamor of voices hushed as he descended below to where the wounded were being tended. Makeshift cots had been set up around the long tables in the mess (bolted to the planks, and thus impossible to clear away), and a quick glance confirmed that none of them were Luciel.

He waved Wynda over from where she stood checking the bandages of a gnome woman with shockingly pink pigtails. "The captain says you're relieved," he said, studying the weary looseness of her shoulders, "and I think I'm seconding the order."

Her eyes when she smiled wryly at him, however, were as clear and sharp as ever. "Aye, lad, I was just thinking of turning in, myself. We've done what we can, and the rest are on their own. If you're looking for Luciel, Vorthaal's with her in her quarters." She shook her head. "It's a nasty scratch, but I'm sure we've all seen worse."

Aren nodded. "Alright. Thanks. Try to get some rest." He'd probably do the same, once he checked on Luciel.

The passenger corridor had already been scrubbed of bodies and blood, and once again looked like a scene from a pleasant inn instead of a nightmare from old Lordaeron. The only lingering remnant of the battle was the mist-pearled hump of ice he stepped over on his way to Luciel's room.

Her bright-red door stood ajar, but he still knocked softly before poking his head in.

Vorthaal turned to greet him respectfully, his still-armored bulk seeming to fill the small room. "Sir Aren."

Luciel lay on the bed beneath clean white sheets, eyes closed and shadowy-blue hair fanned out across the pillow, clearly asleep.

"How is she?" he asked quietly, nudging the door open farther.

"Sleeping, now." He touched her shoulder gently with his large fingertips before moving towards Aren. "Come, we will speak outside so she does not wake."

Aren moved back into the corridor, far enough to allow room for the draenei to follow, and Vorthaal shut the door softly behind him as he did.

"Will she be alright?"

"I believe so." Despite his encouraging words, Vorthaal's ridged brow lowered in a concerned frown. "The wound was not deep, but it is broad and there was infection in it. I think I have purged it, but it is hard to be sure. There was a taint in it that resists the Light."

Aren's heart sank, and even weariness couldn't dull the dread that wrapped cold tendrils around it. This wasn't the news he'd hoped for when he'd learned Luciel had survived. "The creature in the hold was a powerful necromancer. Maybe even a lich. Still, I would've thought his corruption would've been destroyed when he was."

"Unless he was not truly destroyed," Vorthaal said.

"Unless that." Aren sighed. "It's not unprecedented, sadly. We should keep a close eye on Luciel's wound. The other casualties', too." He glanced around to make sure no passengers were within earshot before adding quietly: "And we should make sure that one of us is on hand should any succumb to them."

A low growl rumbled in Vorthaal's throat as he caught his suspicion. "Yes, I agree that that is wise."

"Take care of her." Suddenly feeling even more exhausted than he had sitting among the skeletons in the hold, he took his leave of the other paladin and went in search of the others. So many had died to keep the horrors that consumed his home from spreading. It tried his faith, sometimes, that the Light's defenders should be so fragile while its enemies wrought havoc even as they failed.

* * *

Callista sat at a table at the opposite side of the mess from the cots, swirling a cup of dark wine disinterestedly in one hand and resting her chin in the other. Two similar cups sat on the table nearby, but the Redbranches had finally headed off to their quarters a few minutes ago. She envied them, vaguely; the tiredness she felt was more the mental fatigue that came from spellcasting than physical exhaustion, and it didn't lend itself easily to sleep.

Taking another sip of wine, she watched the passengers moving around the cots set up between the long tables, monitoring wounds or comforting injured loved ones. She didn't much feel like getting drunk, but she was hoping the wine would go to her head enough to make her sleepy. With that necromancer's bones finally pitched over the side, she thought the nap would be a peaceful one.

"Have the others gone to bed?"

She lifted her chin from her hand as Sir Aren sat down next to her in Nathanial's vacant seat. He was still clad in his engraved plate armor, but his gauntlets and helm were missing and he'd taken the time to wash the blood from his face. Fatigue still shadowed it, however, and she was surprised that he hadn't tried to get some sleep himself.

"You just missed the twins."

"That's alright. I'll catch them when they wake up." He reached out to toy with an empty cup, turning it aimlessly in his fingers, and Callista pushed the open bottle of wine along the table at him. He hesitated a moment, glanced from her face to the bottle, then took it and poured the cup full almost to the brim. "I'm glad one of you is still here, to be honest." His voice was much softer now, and she had to cock her head nearer to listen. "Don't say anything to the passengers, but the wounds may be infected. Until we're sure it's harmless, I'd rather one of us kept watch."

Alarmed, Callista stopped swirling her cup. "You think it's plague?"

He didn't answer at first, taking a long swallow of wine without seeming to taste it. "I don't know."

For a while there was silence as they both sipped at their drinks. Finally feeling the warm haze of alcohol beginning to rub the edges off her thoughts, Callista reached again for the bottle.

"He mentioned a name," Sir Aren said abruptly.

She set her newly-filled cup on the table, looking at him in confusion. She was beginning to feel the wine, but she wasn't  _that_  drunk. "What? Who did?"

"The – that  _thing_  in the hold. He mentioned a name. A dreadlord."

She kept her hand on the smooth wood of her cup but didn't pick it up, still puzzled and feeling an instinctive flicker of suspicion at the mention of dreadlords. She remembered the lich's words, but couldn't see what interest they would hold for Sir Aren. The creature had been mocking them, nothing more. There was little point in pretending ignorance, though. "Dalvengyr."

He nodded, taking another swallow of wine before speaking. When he looked up from the cup to study her face, there was no suspicion in his expression, only curiosity. "You sounded like you recognized it."

So, that's what this was about. She  _had_  recognized it, though not because he was a creature she had ever encountered. "Just the name, not the demon," she said, dipping a finger absently into her cup. "He turns up in certain accounts of the Scourge wars."

"I suppose he would," he muttered. Despite the doubtful way he'd eyed the bottle at first, now that he had a glass in his hand he drank through it with a dull kind of will. "I didn't know you had an interest in history."

That's because she didn't. What she actually had was an interest in dreadlords, but the two things tended to be strongly related. Miserable immortal fiends. Dalvengyr hadn't been the one she'd been looking for, though. "Only parts. Warlocks study the Legion, you know." She watched as a ruby drop of wine beaded at her fingertip and fell back into the cup. His muttered statement finally sank in though the layers of drink and exhaustion, and a thought struck her. "That wasn't a name  _you_  recognized?"

Sir Aren half smiled, though there wasn't much pleasure in it. "The name  _and_  the demon, unfortunately. I think we met. Outside Dalaran, or what was left of it."

"You're kidding." She stared at him in surprise, and might have asked another question, but something in his face stopped her. She took another drink instead, but continued to eye him.

"You know for sure he's dead?" He wasn't looking at her anymore, suddenly intensely interested in the hue of the wine in his cup.

Callista considered how she should answer that, chasing a red droplet around the rim of her glass with a fingertip. She was as sure of it as the author of the treatise she'd read had been – for certain values of dead. "The chronicle I found was…fairly graphic. But 'dead' can be relative. For some demons more than others."

"What does that mean?"

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and continued to prod at the droplet as she tried to phrase her explanation in a way a non-arcanist would find clear. "Demons are bound to the Twisting Nether more tightly than they are to Azeroth. Or to anywhere. Destroying their physical forms just sends them back, and won't usually result in a permanent dissolution. Unless you bind or somehow annihilate the soul, they can be summoned again by anyone with the right knowledge. And the cleverest ones can gather enough power in the Nether to summon  _themselves_  back."

"And dreadlords are clever." He'd buried his face in his arms as she spoke, whether to better focus on the words or just because he was tired she couldn't tell, but since he was still wearing his steel vambraces it didn't look very comfortable. He turned his head so his short stubble rasped across the metal, resting his cheek against his crossed forearms. "I wish I could say I'm surprised. But I saw that thing shake off an entire cadre of Kirin Tor mages and  _laugh_. It's hard to imagine anything killing it."

He'd put his head down very close to the hand toying with her cup, and she imagined briefly what it would be like to move it to brush the tense line of his jaw before discarding the thought. Not because she was uninterested (physically, she found him very interesting), or even because she thought she'd embarrass herself (she remembered his touch earlier, and the way he looked at her when she wasn't snarling at him, and was reasonably sure that she wouldn't), but because the idea was  _stupid_. Not the least advisable attraction she'd ever had, granted, but still probably not worth it. She pinged a fingernail idly off the rim of her cup instead. "Oh, I'm sure even dreadlords get theirs eventually." If only because they occasionally ran afoul of each other.

He startled her by laughing quietly as he watched her. "Are you drinking that or washing your hands in it?"

Honestly, the latter was probably closer to the truth, but she shot him a devilish look anyway and drained what was left in the cup. "I'm still ahead of you," she said, setting it down.

He smiled, but before he could say whatever was on the tip of his tongue, another thought seemed to occur to him and the smile twisted into a grimace. "I can't get drunk." He raised his head from his arms, giving it a sharp shake as though to rattle the responsibility (or, in Callista's opinion, killjoy self-righteousness) back into it. "This isn't over."

She snorted, rolling her empty cup between her palms so it spun precariously on its bottom edge. "Nothing's ever over. It's called not being dead."

His hand shot out to catch the cup just before it careened off the side of the table. "Maybe. But someone needs to try to make sure we all stay that way."

She cocked her head at him, gaze traveling up his steel-clad arm to his face. "Oh, really now." He said 'maybe' to her a lot, she'd noticed. She wasn't sure if she found that amusing or irritating, but she was exactly sure how she felt about men (or anyone) who put so much worth in saving a mass of people they didn't know and many of whom were probably beyond help anyway. "You know, the world managed to take care of itself for millennia before you ever strapped on a sword. It could probably muddle through the next few hours alone without spiraling into the Nether."

"I'm not worried about all of Azeroth. Just the people on this ship." Setting the cup gently down on the table in front of her, he slid off the bench. "You should try to get some sleep."

She made no reply to that, watching as he strode towards the white-sheeted cots at the far end of the galley. Trapping the cup between her palms, she set it to spinning again with a sharp motion. His attitude annoyed her, and it annoyed her even more that she should bother being annoyed. She'd known paladins before, some of them even stuffier than Sir Aren, and their behavior had never stirred anything in her but amused contempt. Not this time, though. Maybe it was the way he let the pristine mask slip occasionally; she suspected he might actually know how to have fun if he'd ever let himself. Of course, Azeroth probably really would spiral off into the Nether before that happened.

Downing that last glassful of wine had finally had the effect she intended, and she yawned widely. Dropping her hand down on the cup to still it, she stood and began making her way back to the passenger corridor. Alone, which was less interesting…she flicked the thought away impatiently. Nothing but stress and boredom, probably. Oh, physically, the paladin fit her type well enough (tall and broad-shouldered, good features), but in temperament? She snorted mentally as she threaded through the passengers gathered around the cots. Callista had learned a long time ago that most people couldn't match her in raw force of will, and she preferred to pick lovers from the fraction that could. If she didn't, not only was running roughshod over them boring after a while, but eventually they would start to resent her, and that wasn't fun for anyone. None of that ruled out a strictly physical liaison, of course, but somehow she couldn't see Sir Aren settling for that. Not with how seriously he seemed to take everything else.

She pulled open the door to her quarters, shutting it quietly behind her so as not to disturb Wynda, who was visible only as a dwarf-shaped lump beneath her covers. Well, once they reached Auberdine she'd no longer have to worry about it. And, much as it might come as a surprise to some who knew her, she didn't act on  _every_  impulse that flitted through her mind. That would make life a little too interesting even for her.


	10. Lessons

Two days later the first passenger died of her injuries, followed closely by the second. Neither wound had looked severe – a small bite on the arm, a shallow gouge in the leg – but they had quickly festered, turning black and rank with pus as red streaks of infection raced up the veins beneath the skin. The severity of the illness seemed strangely unrelated to the bloodiness of each wound (several people with much uglier cuts seemed to be recovering), but Aren had his own theories on that. The undead plague's original strain would've raged undiluted in the bodies of the Lordaeron ghouls. He suspected the wounded who survived would be mostly those set upon by their own former shipmates.

There was no way of telling which had caused Luciel's injuries.

A soft red glow smudged the sky to their left as the sun dipped into the horizon. Captain Verner stood near the rail, reciting the sonorous words of the rite of burial at sea over the two sailcloth-wrapped bodies laid on planks near his feet. A cluster of passengers and crew gathered around him at a respectful distance, and Aren could easily pick out Vorthaal standing head and shoulders above the crowd near the back, the solemn glow of his eyes mirroring the stars that had begun to peek from the sky behind him. Wynda stood near the front with a hand squeezing the shoulder of a sobbing dwarf woman.

She and Aren had attended each passing, half to perform the final blessings of the Light and half to ensure that the disease's foulness ended with its victim's death. Despite his earlier fears, the bodies lay peacefully still. They looked somehow smaller than they had in life; even the dwarf's stocky form looked sadly reduced beneath its canvas shroud.

"Oh, Light, by the power of your Word you stilled the chaos of the primeval seas, you made the raging waters of the elements subside, you brought calm to the wild spirits of the floods that beset our fathers."

Footsteps echoed up the forecastle stairs behind him, and he glanced back to see Callista and the Redbranches step onto the deck and then pause as they registered the scene in front of them. The brothers clasped their hands together automatically around the fishing rods and tackle they held, adding their voices to those of the passengers murmuring the words of the funeral prayer.

Callista bowed her head respectfully, pushing back the grey hood of her cloak, but her lips didn't move with the others'. Not surprising. Aren supposed he should've felt condemnation for her lack of faith, or at least pity, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything. That would be naïve, expecting a warlock to believe in the Light. He wondered if she really believed in anything.

"As we commit the earthly remains of our brother, Durem Staranvil, and sister, Geraldine Farrow, to the deep, grant them your peace and tranquility as their souls find safe harbor in your mercy. We ask this through the grace of the Holy Light. Amen."

Four sailors, one at the head and foot of each body, lifted the planks they rested on. Setting them on the top of the rail, they tipped their burdens gently into the sunset-tinged sea below.

The dwarf woman Wynda was comforting had managed to dry her red-rimmed eyes during the captain's prayer, but let out a strangled cry at the splash.

Something in Aren's chest twisted, and he looked away. His gaze fell on Nathanial, who was watching the woman with a troubled expression, and he wondered with another pang if he was picturing his own wife in her place.

"Sometimes I don't know why the Light allows it," Nathanial muttered.

Callista adjusted her cloak around her shoulders as the breeze stiffened. "The same reason the arcane does." For once she didn't sound amused by her own words. Actually, she looked as though she didn't care much for the taste of them at all. "Because power is indifferent, and the good are no better at wielding it than their enemies. In fact, they're usually worse."

Nathanial crinkled up his nose, eyeing her reproachfully. "Ouch. You don't really believe that?"

She cocked her head at him. "Why not? Your own superiors obviously do, or I wouldn't even be here."

Ander laughed. "Right, because you're obviously just a great big ball of demonic evil.  _Woooooo_." He waggled the fingers of his free hand playfully at her.

She grinned wryly and swatted at the fingers he was wiggling in her face. "Hey! Oh, alright. So I'm not quite as bad as I could be. But trust me, I'm no better than I have to be, either."

"Good," Ander said cheerfully. "One less to scold me when I show up hungover to muster." He shot Aren a rakish glance to see if he was listening.

He was, but Aren was far too used to Ander's capering to be baited. "Should I be sticking my fingers in my ears?" he asked dryly.

Ander showed him a white grin. "Could you?"

Callista arched a brow mischievously at him, and this time the twist in his stomach was decidedly more pleasant.

Nathanial tilted his head, looking his brother over with a critical expression. "What are you going to do if the Dawn ever assigns you to a commander who doesn't think you're funny?"

Ander seemed to consider that for a moment, then shrugged, face brightening. "Finally get a chance to drink at a court martial?"

Nathanial snorted. "You think I would've learned by now." For good measure, he thwacked his brother lightly across the back of the neck with his fishing pole. "Come on, we should put our lines over the other side."

They traipsed off with their tackle in the opposite direction of the slowly-dispersing funeral, Ander taking the opportunity to jab his twin in the back with the tip of his fishing rod.

Callista looked after them for a moment with an amused cant of her head, then wandered over to lean up against the forecastle wall at Aren's side. She laced her fingers together and stretched before settling comfortably back against the planks, watching the last crimson sliver of sun dissolve into the sea. Her air of idle contentment was contagious; the mourners had mostly scattered into small knots of people clustering near the rails, and in the soft slanting light of dusk it was deceptively easy to imagine that this was a different, happier kind of voyage. For a moment, Aren allowed himself to be lulled.

"You know, there's a lot I don't like about this trip, but I'm not sorry about all of it," she said after a moment, tipping her chin in the direction of the Redbranches' departure. "You wouldn't believe how seriously most arcanists take themselves."

She said it like it was a bad thing, but Aren wasn't so sure that a little sobriety was unwarranted among a group that could burn down a city quarter with a wrong twist of thought. "They're good at getting around people." He shook his head ruefully, remembering past misadventures. "Probably better than they should be, actually."

"Well, maybe if some people didn't need so much getting around, they wouldn't have so much practice." She'd been inspecting the runes that circled the cuff of one of her sleeves, but flicked her eyes lightly up to his at the end of her words.

For reasons he couldn't quite articulate, he felt a sheepish smile begin to creep across his face before he realized how silly he must look and stifled it. "I'm their commander," he protested. "I'm _supposed_  to need getting around."

"Oh, so that's how it works," she said, the corner of her mouth twitching in an expression that, for once, seemed to be without edge. "Are you mine?"

He had the horrible suspicion that his ears had flushed and suddenly missed his helm, which would've hidden them. She was teasing him – he had no idea how to answer that question, her position in his company was fuzzy enough on its own and the half-veiled invitation in her eyes only complicated things – and he couldn't decide if he liked it or not. Aren was educated enough (his mother had been a petty noble – married to his father for a stake in the family business – and had seen to that), but he didn't have the silver tongue that the mage schools seemed to encourage in their students, and he'd never been fond of the kind of banter that Callista seemed to enjoy.

He was saved from finding an appropriate answer by the approaching clop of Vorthaal's hooves against the deck. He looked up gratefully, then immediately felt guilty at the draenei's solemn expression. There were grieving people here. He should be representing the Light, not…doing whatever he was doing with Callista, who was a warlock and faithless and probably not even really interested in him anyway.

"There was fear that the infection could spread to the healthy," Vorthaal said. Behind him the sky had deepened to black velvet, smeared with red only at the very edge of sea and sky, and the light of his eyes glinted off the gold rings that adorned each of his fleshy barbels. "I believe I have reassured them, but it is hard to be certain. Your people's faces are so dark without sun."

"I can speak to them, but I'm sure you did fine," Aren said, straightening. Most people were a little in awe of the draenei, who were built so imposingly and seemed so ancient, and, if anything, Vorthaal's word on this illness would be more readily accepted than his own.

"It does not seem fair," he said, and Aren thought he detected a little wistfulness in the low rumble of his voice. "You become ill so easily, when your lives are already so short."

Callista laughed. "Elves and draenei,  _Nether_. Please, rub it in more."

Vorthaal looked startled and then abashed, tail swishing sheepishly behind him, but she laughed again before he could begin to apologize. "Oh, don't look so guilty! I was only teasing. We grow up used to it," she said. "Not that we like it, when we stop to think about it, but I imagine it would be worse to expect to live forever and then fall sick. No one I know pines too much for immortality."

"That is well," Vorthaal said, relaxing now that it was clear he hadn't offended anyone. "My people live very long, so long that few have ever died of aging, but we are mortal all the same. For some it was not enough. It is a snare the Burning Legion used when they came to our world."

Callista snorted. "I guess their lures haven't changed much in the last few thousand years."

Vorthaal shrugged his large shoulders grimly. "Why would they, when they have been so successful? Yours is the first world we have visited to have withstood more than one assault."

Aren grimaced, finding this entire conversation deeply depressing. Just one more reminder of old tragedies on a journey that seemed much too full of them already. He'd thought to find closure here, helping the last survivors of his homeland one final time, but sometimes it seemed that all he was managing was to rip the scabs from hurts that were never as healed as he'd believed. Before they'd left port, he'd been able to go days without conjuring up Lordaeron's ghosts, and had been able to imagine a time when they'd no longer trouble him at all. Now, it seemed he could hardly go hours without having some reminder thrust upon him. This wasn't how he'd meant it to be.

"The joys of belligerence," Callista said more cheerfully than he thought her words warranted. "We've been sharpening our claws on each other for years."

This particularly egregious bit of cynicism dragged his attention back to the conversation at hand. "Not true," he said, shaking his head briefly to clear it. "We won because we managed to set aside our differences long enough to lock shields against a common enemy."

She showed her teeth in savage amusement. "And the only reason we had shields to lock was because we'd been bludgeoning each other with them for the last few thousand years. We just want the Legion to leave us alone so we can go back to killing each other properly. All those demons running around tipping battles one way or the other…very unsporting."

Vorthaal looked at her sidelong, white-lit eyes narrowing speculatively. "I have not yet decided if you believe everything that you say."

She gave a vague half-shrug. "That's alright. Neither have I."

He let out a bemused rumbling chuckle. "I would say that humans are odd creatures, but by the commander's face, you are simply an odd human. Perhaps I will…sleep on it?" He seemed uncertain as to whether he'd used the right expression, but when no one corrected him, he continued. "It is time for me to retire. I will see you tomorrow."

They bid him goodnight, and it didn't take long for his hoofbeats to fade into the bowels of the ship. In the quiet that followed his departure, a woman's muffled sobs were clearly audible over the slap of waves against the hull and ruffling of canvas.

The forlorn sound shattered what was left of the peace Aren had allowed himself to indulge in. He squared his shoulders beneath his tabard to keep them from sagging as the responsibility of his position seemed to settle back onto them as oppressively as it ever had. "I should go, too. I need to check on Luciel and the other wounded, make sure Wynda's alright…"

Callista watched him inscrutably for a moment, leaning her temple up against the weathered wood of the forecastle wall. "Do you ever make anything easy on yourself?"

It was an unexpected question, and it was hard not to flinch at the suddenness of it. He didn't have an answer, and the anger that flared in his breast startled him. He didn't like being blindsided, didn't like the way she threw words around like they were darts and then watched to see if she'd hit anything vital, didn't like the way she was always so damnably  _certain_. It wasn't fair. The world had buckled under Aren's feet years ago when the Scourge came, so badly that not even his faith had managed to shore it back into place again, but even though the warlock believed in nothing but the callous indifference of everything she never seemed to fear that the ground would shift beneath her step. He was drawn to her surety even as it irritated him, and what galled the most was the idea that she wouldn't even care.

Well, maybe he couldn't make her, but he didn't have to further whatever game she thought she was playing with him, either. Meeting her eyes implacably for a heartbeat longer, he turned and strode down the stairs.

* * *

Callista waited for his footsteps to fade before wandering to the rail, looking thoughtfully over it into the onyx sea below. Her question had stung him, obviously, but then, she'd meant it to. Sir Aren seemed to be what was, in her experience, that rarest of all things: a truly sincere man. Her reasonable side told her that only made him a fool – after all, people without guile were so often taken advantage of by people who were…well…like her – but somewhere along the line a grudging respect had crept in. He hadn't led a sheltered life, and it must've taken immense strength of spirit to not become bitter as the Scourge devoured his entire world. What's more, they'd fought a lich together, and despite her cynical sense of misgiving she was beginning to like him. He deserved a better life than one where he was perpetually tormenting himself for things he could never have helped.

Even so, she thought she'd seen real anger in that look he'd given her before heading below, and she wondered if she'd hit a more tender nerve than she'd meant to.

The wind pushed the ship along at a good clip, and moon-flecked pearls of spray rose from the bow. It had been a while since Callista had last sailed, and she'd forgotten how enormous the night sky could look at sea. Craning her head back, she watched the sails sway against a brilliant scatter of stars, the White Lady and Blue Child just beginning to rise as bright crescents near the horizon. The occasional sailor scurried along the deck behind her but paid her no mind. Captain Verner had issued a curfew after the collision with the Scourge, but she and the rest of Sir Aren's company seemed to be tacitly exempt. The idea that the crew might actually find her prowling reassuring was a strange one to her. Most people considered warlocks one of the things that lurked in the shadows, not a defense against them.

Tiring of the empty night, she turned back towards the forecastle stairs. After the attack, she'd stopped trying to adapt to the schedule of the ship and gone back to her usual nocturnal habits. She'd grabbed a few copies of magical texts before getting hauled off on this voyage; maybe she'd take a lantern down to the deserted mess and read them for a while. Now that the wounded had been moved back to their own quarters, it was pleasantly quiet there at night.

A few hours later, her eyelids had begun to droop.

She yawned, leaning back on the bench, and pushed away the square of spell-diagrammed parchment she'd been annotating. The mortals of Azeroth had had much greater contact with demons since the re-opening of the Dark Portal, and a lot of interesting work was coming out of the wreck of Draenor. She'd gotten a little behind on it, distracted as she'd been with yanking imps out of nobles' gardens, but this voyage was giving her the chance to catch up.

She'd reached her limit for this night, though. Gathering her papers in one hand and the light in the other, she made her way around the tables of the empty mess towards her quarters. The lanterns that stood sentinel along the walls of the passenger corridor had been dimmed to reddish sparks, but at least they were lit. She felt none of the unfocused menace that she had the night of the attack.

All the same, she jumped as a muffled clatter shivered up through the planks under her feet.

What in the Twisting Nether was  _that_?

She paused, listening, but the noise didn't repeat itself. Something in the hold? It sounded almost as though a crate had tumbled to the floor. Maybe some cargo had slipped its bindings?

Shifting her grip on her parchments, she scowled at the dim stairs at the end of the corridor. They'd done several thorough sweeps of the ship after the attack, and she was sure that no ghouls had escaped, but that didn't mean she was about to ignore any strange noises. Probably it was nothing, but she'd sleep a lot better once she was certain of it.

Ducking quietly into her quarters so as not to disturb Wynda, she tucked the parchment back into her pack and then hesitated. Was this worth changing into her robes for? The enchantments would be helpful if she actually found anything dangerous, but, on the other hand, if some passenger stuck his head out and saw her dressed like she was strolling into Tarren Mill there'd be a scene. Settling on a compromise, she left the robes folded at the bottom of her bag but grabbed the belt that held her sheathed dagger. She buckled it on over her tunic as she shut the door gently behind her and strode towards the stairs.

Once she descended to the landing she stopped, straining her ears against the creak and groan of sea-tossed wood.

Nothing.

She doubted she'd find anything more menacing than a particularly clumsy rat, but she still closed a fist around one of the soul shards she habitually kept in her pockets, feeling the bleed of power into the air around her as she fashioned a spell.

The shard vaporized in her fingers as the shadows that painted the walls around her seemed to leap together and coalesce, whirling into a vaguely-humanoid mass. Two eyes like white stars winked into existence in the amorphous void of the demon's face.

"Must feed," it rasped.

She waved the voidwalker off impatiently, giving it a mental command and following its shadowy back down into the hold. She generally preferred Jhormug for this type of thing – the voidwalker hated her with the same icy hatred it harbored for all living things, and its company was decidedly unpleasant – but it would be too much effort to keep the felhunter from howling, and she didn't want to panic the whole ship. Thal'kuun, whatever its personal shortcomings, was at least quiet. And despite the hazy formlessness of its body, its claws were very real and razor-sharp.

Flames guttered in her cupped hand as she slipped between the dark stacks of crates. The crew had done their best to remove all signs of the battle, but they'd been less thorough in their scrubbing down here than they'd been in the living spaces, and blotchy stains still marked the planks where bodies had lain. The air smelled of saltwater and pitch, but she thought she could still detect a sour whiff of decay underneath.

Thal'kuun glided stolidly before her, its shapeless body simply deforming to pass through the places where Callista had to squeeze sideways.

There was no sound but her own footsteps and the rasp of her clothing against the crates, but the flickering light of the fire in her hand coupled with the memories of the last time she'd entered this place conspired to make it creepier than it should have been. Shadows danced and swayed, and her imagination had no trouble conjuring the hunched bodies of ghouls around each twist of the path. She found the frigid touch of the voidwalker's mind at the edges of her own perversely comforting.

They'd just passed the place where Jhormug had broken a crate – swept now of broken glass – when she heard it. She froze, holding her breath as she listened to the quiet series of splashes. Not the waves against the hull; this was too irregular and too close. There was water under their feet in the bilge, she remembered. She wasn't sure if anyone had boarded up those holes she'd burned in the deck earlier, but now seemed like a good time to check.

As they moved around the roped barrels where she'd first seen that necromancer, she caught sight of a dappled pattern of light on the planks above, as though a lantern was shining off the water in the bilge. It seemed no one had closed off those holes after all, though the smashed crate and the Scourge remains had all been removed.

She narrowed her eyes. Not undead, then – they wouldn't need the light – but something was amiss here, and whatever it was was about to be very sorry.

The top of a rickety-looking ladder poked up over the charred side of one of the gaps. Callista clenched her hand, extinguishing the flames, and motioned Thal'kuun first down into the bilge.

Rather than using the ladder, the voidwalker simply glided to the edge and drifted downward like black smoke.

Callista had just reached the ladder and craned her neck to peer into the hole when a terrified shriek echoed upwards in concert with a cold surge of delight across her bond with Thal'kuun.

She hissed through her teeth, suddenly unsure. That scream sounded decidedly human…and the voidwalker never seemed that pleased to torment anything she  _wanted_  it to kill.

Cursing under her breath, she yanked back viciously on her minion's tether, stopping it from doing…whatever horrible thing it had been contemplating…and half-slithered half-jumped down the ladder. She landed knee-deep in slimy seawater and caught one of the rungs to avoid slipping on the curved bottom of the bilge.

At first all she could see was Thal'kuun as it loomed like a shifting tidal wave of shadow over something cornered against the side. A blue flare of magic shattered against its chest in tinkling shards of ice, and she swore again. "Get away from there!"

The voidwalker slid backward with a reluctant growl, revealing two rather damp and stunned-looking humans. The first, she'd expected – Dinah, that half-fledged mageling with the brown hair and too-large eyes – but the second startled her. Magister Sabrice blinked up at her, eyes wide with fear, before recognition crossed his features and they composed themselves into a reproachful expression. It did nothing to quell Callista's growing irritation.

"Did it touch either of you?" she asked crankily. Creeping through a dark hold waiting for something hideous to leap at her wasn't her idea of an enjoyable night.

"No," Dinah said in a small voice, swallowing shakily. Her back was still pressed up against the grimy bulkhead, but she seemed disinclined to move. "It just reached…"

And given them a solid dose of its own native version of a fear spell, by the looks of it. Callista turned her head to study Thal'kuun disapprovingly. For a mostly-faceless blob of voidstuff, it was doing an excellent approximation of a sulk – its entire form seemed squatter (though it still towered over any of the humans), and it flattened even more at her inspection, narrowing the white holes of its eyes. " _Feed_ ," it grumbled.

Callista sighed grumpily. She supposed it wasn't really the demon's fault; it was only doing what it did, after all, and if there really had been enemies down here she would've been pleased with it. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out another soul shard and held it in her palm. "Yes, feed."

A quick cantrip loosed the bindings on the shard, dissolving it into an amethyst vapor that flowed to merge with the shadows of Thal'kuun's form, momentarily swirling on its surface like purple oil before being completely consumed. The voidwalker's simple pleasure at being satiated brushed her mind, but not for long. "Rend flesh," it hissed in a tone she imagined was hopeful.

Dinah and Magister Sabrice watched nervously as it reared almost to the planks overhead and flexed the shadowy points of its claws.

"Later," Callista said, dismissing it back to the Nether with a gesture. Its hatred roiled her thoughts briefly before vanishing.

Magister Sabrice pushed himself away from the damp bulkhead and straightened, bolder now that the demon was gone. He'd hiked his trousers up to his knees, revealing his skinny calves, but the fabric was still soaked to the edge of his tunic. "I can't believe you  _rewarded_ that thing for – "

"Acting the way it's supposed to?" she snapped dangerously. The cold filthy water she was standing in had already filled her boots and begun wicking up her calfskin leggings, further souring her already foul mood. "You should take a lesson from it,  _Magister_. What do you think you're doing down here?"

As if she couldn't guess. A partially-shuttered lantern stood next to a spellbook on top of a crate serving as a makeshift table, and she could read the distinctive characters of Eredun on the exposed pages.

"Teaching," Magister Sabrice said, drawing himself up and looking at her down his long nose with impressive haughtiness.

Callista eyed him balefully. "Rend flesh" was beginning to sound less and less like a totally unreasonable demand. "Teaching. Of course," she said in a deceptively even voice. "Teaching what? Fel magic? To a complete novice? On a shipful of people, separated from an entire sea full of very deep, very cold, very  _unbreathable_  water by one very thin hunk of  _wood_?" She kicked her toe against the bulkhead for emphasis, words an irate hiss. "Are you insane?"

"I don't like your tone, girl. Or your implication." Beyond his habitual nervous tugging at one sleeve, Sabrice didn't seem at all intimidated by her now that the demon was gone. "We're not fools. We were only translating spells, not practicing them."

It pacified her slightly to know that there hadn't really been any danger of the ship burning down, but she was still very annoyed. The way he kept calling her "girl" didn't help. " _You're_  a warlock? I guess I'm not entirely surprised." She looked him over coolly, stepping up onto one of the lower rungs of the ladder to lift her feet out of the water.

Twin spots of color rose in his papery cheeks as he sloshed over to the crate and scooped up the lantern and spellbook. "I am no such thing." At Callista's skeptically narrowed eyes, he elaborated. "I…dabbled…once. But not anymore."

She cocked her head, still clinging to the ladder. Now  _that_  piqued her interest. Almost the only reason anyone who started down the path of demonic magic returned to magecraft was because they found they didn't have an aptitude for it. Even among those, it wasn't common; far more often they simply destroyed themselves with power they couldn't handle. To backpedal down that path far enough to become a successful mage showed an unusual amount of both self-knowledge and self-control, and Callista's opinion of the magister actually rose slightly. Though he was still, at this particular moment, an idiot. "If you'd given it up, why are you tutoring  _her_?"

Dinah had been watching the two of them argue in somewhat nervous silence, but she'd recovered from the scare the voidwalker had given her enough to cross her arms defiantly when Callista jerked her chin at her. "I was going to learn anyway."

Magister Sabrice sighed. "If she insists on making this mistake, I think it best she at least be supervised. Don't you?" He flicked his hand in a distracted gesture and the crate levitated to elbow level, dirty seawater pouring from its joins. "Come along, no sense all of us getting any wetter now."

Finally, something she could agree with. Callista pulled herself the rest of the way up the ladder, climbing out of the bilge onto the dry planks of the hold. " _Ugh_ ," she said, feeling the squelch of slimy water in her boots.

Dinah and the magister scrambled up behind her, the ensorcelled crate floating up last and gliding into place amongst the other cargo.

"Are you going to tell the captain?" Dinah looked up at her with a mix of apprehension and challenge, her book of spells tucked under one arm.

Callista raised a brow. To be honest, the idea hadn't even occurred to her. She supposed it was probably the technically correct thing to do, but running to authority had never been her preferred answer to anything. Besides, then she'd have to admit to Verner that she'd almost let a voidwalker eat two of his passengers. "No."

She smiled hesitantly. "Thanks."

"You're just lucky I wasn't Wynda," Callista muttered. Flames flickered in her cupped hand, augmenting the light of the magister's lantern. "Come on, let's get out of here. We smell like the canals at midsummer."

They squeezed back through the crates towards the stairwell, shadows parting before their pool of light and closing in like curtains behind them.

"So, Dinah," Sabrice said with the air of a man about to impart a lesson, "you've seen your first hostile demon. Are you still sure you're being wise?"

"Yes," she said stubbornly after only the briefest of pauses.

Callista snorted.

"Now that you know I'm doing it anyway, you might as well help me," Dinah said to her hopefully.

"That might not be inadvisable," Sabrice said, startling her with his agreement. "My knowledge is mostly academic, I'm afraid. I was never even fluent in spoken Eredun, only written. Maybe if you helped her become acclimated to demons in a controlled setting…"

Callista wrinkled her nose in irritation. The last thing a novice warlock needed was to become "acclimated" to demons. Quite the opposite, in fact. Fel magic could be unpredictable and hard to control, and a warlock early in her training would know exactly enough to be dangerous to herself and little else. A healthy dose of fear would keep her cautious and alive.

Wet, cold, sleepy and annoyed, however, Callista was in no mood to try to articulate this. Instead she just scowled over her shoulder at them. "Absolutely not."

They took another few steps in silence before Dinah's high voice piped up again. "If you don't teach me Eredun, I'll tell the captain you've been summoning demons in the hold."

" _Dinah!_ " Sabrice scolded over Callista's peal of surprised laughter.

It was an awkward attempt at coercion and Callista found it, bizarrely, almost endearing. Like a kitten first discovering it had claws. "Better, but no," she said once she'd managed to choke down her amusement. Maybe the girl would do alright after all.

The sullen silence behind her was almost palpable. She glanced back and almost laughed again at Dinah's expression of high indignation, but restrained herself in an uncharacteristic fit of mercy. The girl's face had colored and she'd hunched herself as far as possible into her cloak, clearly not at all appreciating being laughed at. She glared balefully at Callista's inspection.

"You're a  _witch_ ," she muttered sulkily.

That was almost too much for Callista's slippery hold on composure, but she managed to keep herself straight-faced. "In every possible sense," she said dryly.

Magister Sabrice let out a strangled cough.

As they tramped up the stairs into the passenger corridor, Callista was relieved not to see armed sailors waiting for them at the top. Luckily, it seemed their noise hadn't carried above decks.

They parted ways silently, Dinah and the magister entering their own rooms while Callista continued down the hall to her own. Unlike the two mages, who had both been barefoot and had had the forethought to roll up their trouser legs, Callista's boots and leggings were soaked and she was beginning to shiver in the cool night air. Not to mention the smell – she sniffed disgustedly at her sleeve where some water had splashed onto it, but the gesture turned into a yawn halfway through. Hopefully Wynda wouldn't wake her too early tomorrow.

The sound of footsteps padding down the short corridor that led to the officers' quarters arrested her with the back of her hand still covering her mouth. She briefly considered making a dash for her room just to avoid an explanation, but realized she wouldn't make it in time and paused crankily to wait, lowering her arm.

After a short moment, Sir Aren rounded the corner.

She shifted half-heartedly towards her quarters, unsure how he would react to her after their last conversation and, for once, not in the mood for an argument. Like her, the paladin was dressed in afternoon attire instead of his nightclothes, but unlike hers his expression was hazy with sleep. He must've taken the time to change after the noise woke him. "Callista?" he said, looking blearily startled to see her. At least he didn't seem to be angry. "I thought I heard someone scream."

He didn't sound at all sure about it, though, which suited Callista fine. "Don't worry about it," she advised, making to move past him.

He stepped out in front of her, forcing her to stop. "What are you doing up?" he asked, looking her over more closely. His forehead creased in a puzzled frown as he seemed to notice her wet clothes for the first time, and his nose wrinkled slightly. Catching a whiff of bilgewater, no doubt. That hole hadn't smelled at all pleasant.

Mild embarrassment didn't improve Callista's ill temper in the slightest. "Figuring out why some creatures eat their young," she muttered, pushing past his arm.

His mouth opened slightly as though he meant to say something – probably to ask her what in the Light she was talking about – but he seemed to reconsider after a glance at her face and shut it again, watching in bemusement as she stalked past.

Relieved to have escaped, Callista pushed open the door to her quarters, kicking off her sodden boots on the other side with more violence than was necessary. There was a lot she'd gained as a warlock, and more often than not she was pleased with her choice, but every now and then she wondered if just finishing Academy wouldn't have been a lot less  _trouble_.

 


	11. Landfall

Shouts and the clash of steel rang across the deck of  _The_ _Fortitude_.

Aren sat on a coiled pile of rope near the rail, watching the Redbranches spar back and forth in the middle of a ring of onlookers calling encouragement. Both were clad in light armor and already red-faced beneath the afternoon sun. Nathanial brandished his favorite short sword and buckler, while Ander had discarded his usual poleaxe in favor of a matched pair of cutlasses he'd borrowed from the ship's locker.

Sparks flew from the buckler's studs as Nathanial raised it to block a wild flurry of blows. He lunged and thrust out with his sword beneath it, causing Ander to break off his assault and twist out of the way with a yelp.

He quickly balanced on the balls of his feet, dancing in a circle around Nathanial and occasionally lashing out with one blade or the other, hoping to catch his brother flat-footed.

"You ain't gonna make him dizzy, lad!" an old man crowed to hoots and laughter from the crowd.

A woman shrieked as Nathanial's blade flashed out, parried away a hairsbreadth from laying open Ander's cheek. He grinned and winked at her as he spun past.

A low laugh caught Aren's attention. He looked up to see Luciel watching the mock-battle at his side, hair twisted up and out of the way in a tight braid and sweat sheening the purple skin of her face. Ever since Vorthaal had pronounced her healed enough to walk, she'd spent most of her time on limbering and agility exercises. They seemed to be paying off; her steps were as silent as ever. "His swordmaster would box his ears for that, but he does have flair."

Aren laughed. He'd watched the brothers spar countless times, but despite their seeming recklessness they'd never injured one another beyond a few nicks and bruises. "At the moment, I'm glad he does. I had to break up a brawl in the mess today. They said it was over a missing coin-purse, but I think everyone's just getting restless."

Luciel nodded in agreement, brushing a shadowy wisp of hair back behind a pointed ear. "I miss the shade of the forests, myself. I learned to rise with the sun to better understand your kind, but the light is even harsher on the sea than in your cities. Your people's love for day still puzzles me. Why always walk beneath the sun when it burns your skins?"

Aren absently touched the bridge of his nose where his own sunburn had long ago faded to tan. "Most of us can't see very well in the dark." He paused a moment, fumbling for a more complete answer. "And most of us worship the Holy Light. In many of the parables, darkness is where evil dwells."

She squinted briefly in the direction of the sun's yellow torch, the silvery glow of her eyes barely discernable now. "We think the same of fire."

Aren found that interesting. He knew the night elves' war with the Legion had begun far earlier than his own people's, and he wondered how much of that aversion started with the vile corruption of demonflame. "Well, Light willing, we'll all be out of the sun soon. Captain Verner says we should make port today, and I've heard the clouds over Auberdine never lift."

After those last two deaths more than a week ago, the journey had been mercifully uneventful. The occasional storm had been short and easily weathered and the winds had pushed them swiftly along towards Kalimdor. Other than checking up on those few wounded who remained bedridden, his only duty had been dealing with a pair of disgruntled merchant representatives whose goods had been damaged during the battle and who were demanding compensation. The claim was pure nonsense – the Scourge had assaulted the ship, not the Argent Dawn – but apparently the merchants' gratitude for their lives didn't extend as far as their bottom line.

A loud roar from the crowd heralded the end of the sparring match. He looked over to see Ander lying on the deck with Nathanial's sword pointed at his throat and a large red bump on his forehead where he'd obviously been whacked with the shield.

He groaned dramatically as Nathanial sheathed his blade and the black-haired woman who'd screamed earlier knelt down to check on his bruise. "My head! Murdered in cold blood by my own brother."

"Only if you can die of theatrics," Nathanial said unsympathetically, tilting his head to study the effects of his blow. "I told you you didn't push your helm down far enough!"

" _I_ think you look dashing," the kneeling woman said, dabbing ineffectually at the lump with a damp handkerchief.

Nathanial snorted. "Well, he's certainly been dashed."

Luciel laughed as Ander cracked open one of the eyes he'd closed in his "agony" and peered up at his rescuer. "Ander's on the ground, but I'm not certain he hasn't won."

"I'm sure he'd agree with you." The woman was pretty and rather plump, and between how tightly her bodice was laced and the way she was leaning over him, Aren suspected his view was enviable.

Standing, he brushed the clinging rope fibers from his tunic and gazed out towards the glittering blue line where sea met sky. He'd been checking it constantly ever since Verner offhandedly mentioned Auberdine was close, but although the view was lovely, he couldn't muster much more than wary impatience in response to it. This was meant to be the safe part of their journey.

* * *

Callista leaned back against the rail and propped her book up on her stomach, sunning herself in the light that bathed the deck. She occasionally turned a page, but the dense tome on warding runes held less interest for her than the laughter and excited chatter that drifted in the wake of the Redbranches' sparring match. After almost two weeks at sea, the cramped quarters were beginning to chafe. Even reading was losing its appeal.

She kept an ear hopefully cocked for the lookout up in the crow's nest, but so far all she heard was the slap of waves and the noise of her fellow passengers. Scowling unconsciously, she smoothed a page down harder than was really necessary. Now that they were nearing Kalimdor, some of her irritation at her situation (forgotten amidst the chaos of the Scourge attack) had returned. She'd sent a letter to Lord Duncan before she'd set off on this little excursion; since those with the coin always sent their mail by magecraft instead of by ship, his reply had almost certainly reached Auberdine days ago and was waiting for her even now. She itched to know what it said.

Light footsteps padded across the deck towards her and then paused.

"What's that?"

She looked up to see Dinah peering curiously at her book from beneath the hood of her cloak. The girl never seemed to lower it, no matter how warm the sun, and Callista suspected she was avoiding a tan in the hopes of looking more warlock-like.

Since she'd just read the same paragraph twice without registering any of it, she was less annoyed by the interruption than she might have been. Sticking a frayed length of ribbon between the pages to mark her place, she turned the book so Dinah could see the cover. "It's on wards. Malven Icefinger."

Dinah wrinkled her brow and eyed her suspiciously, unsure if she was being teased. "Icefinger's not a warlock, he wrote my third year text. What is it  _really_?"

Callista laughed. Their encounter in the hold had convinced her that at least the girl had will (even if she did lack a certain amount of polish), and ever since, she'd treated her less dismissively. The warlock had no desire for an apprentice, and she wasn't about to start recommending courses of study, but she'd answer direct questions if she wasn't otherwise occupied. It was better than leaving her to whatever muddled half-answer Sabrice could dredge up. "It's really a book on warding runes. Believe it or not, fel magic isn't all blood and raining fire."

"I know  _that_ ," Dinah said. She looked at her critically, adjusting the edge of her own hood against marauding sunbeams. "Your nose is turning all pink again."

"Let it," Callista said. After a day or two under the trees at Auberdine it would fade to tan, and the less she resembled the fish-belly white, hook-nosed, green-eyed stereotype of a human warlock, the happier she'd be in the night elven city. Particularly if she were stuck there alone long waiting for the next ship to Stormwind. She still had no intention of accompanying the Dawn on its asinine quest.

After a brief pause, Dinah seemed to remember what she'd come to ask and her expression of vague disapproval faded into curiosity. "What does 'shat'threcht' mean?"

Callista raised a brow. Now there was a word that didn't turn up too often in legitimate texts. "Where did you read  _that_?"

"The treatise on summoning circles I'm studying. The author used it to describe switching ox blood for a thinking creature's in the demarcation."

Callista snorted. "Yes, I suppose he would. Don't ever do that, by the way."

"Why?" A pair of young boys tumbled along the deck behind her, giggling and whacking at each other with shards of planks in imitation of the Redbranch brothers, and her eyes darted to see if anyone was eavesdropping before she sat down next to Callista with her back to the rail.

Callista's mouth twitched wryly at her caution.  _The Fortitude_  was not a large ship, and after the battle she doubted there was anyone on it who didn't know what she was. Anyone who cared to watch would've noticed the way the apprentice mage sought her out and drawn the obvious conclusion some time ago. If she meant to be subtle about her interest in demonic magic, she'd started far too late. "Because no matter what the druids tell you, not all life is equal. Ritual blood needs to channel the arcane. All thinking creatures have some potential for that, but animals don't. An arcanist's blood is even better, which is why most of the more, uh,  _scrupulous_  warlocks use their own." Of course, not all warlocks were scrupulous, which explained a great deal of the average mage's hatred for them. "Demons' blood is best, but that can be hard to come by."

Dinah nodded thoughtfully at that, a few locks of brown hair escaping from beneath her hood. "So what's 'shat'threcht' mean?" She watched her closely and a little suspiciously from the corner of her eye, as though she thought Callista had been intentionally distracting her.

Callista repressed a laugh. That was one thing she gave her credit for; the girl seemed reluctant to drop her initial distrust of her, which made her already far more sensible than many grown men and women she knew. "It means Light-touched. An insult. A fairly nasty one, actually, if you're a demon. Kind of like calling someone a lunatic and a damned idiot all at once."

"Really?" She looked delighted. Dinah was evidently young and well-bred enough that using foul language hadn't lost all of its thrill. "Do you think Magister Sabrice knows?"

"I'm sure he could guess."

She made a sour face. It only scrunched up more as her gaze traveled past Callista to something further down the rail. "Look, those ugly merchants are back pestering Sir Aren again."

Callista turned her head and narrowed her eyes at the sight. Joffren Glasswright (a tall man with a prematurely bald pate and watery blue eyes) and Rizzle Steamrocket (no less attractive than most goblins, but still clearly unappealing to Dinah) stood talking to a resigned-looking Sir Aren, who they'd cornered near one of the lifeboats. Dinah had taken a dislike to the pair after they'd scolded her for sitting on one of their crates while she studied. Callista loathed them because once they'd failed to convince Sir Aren to pay for their lost cargo they'd approached the rest of his company, hoping to persuade them to exert some pressure on him. The mix of arrogance and obsequiousness in their manner (as well as the insultingly low amount of gold they'd offered for her help) had set her teeth on edge to the point she'd spent most of the conversation fantasizing about nailing them into their own crate of broken glassware and heaving it overboard.

Climbing to her feet, she tucked her book under one arm and smoothed out her tunic. Just watching them caused the impatience she was already feeling to flare into annoyance. She liked Sir Aren, and he did an admirable job of chopping up Scourge, but he seemed infuriatingly reluctant to bare his teeth at anyone he considered a civilian.

Callista, however, had no such qualms. And little better to do, either.

"Where are you going?" Dinah asked as Callista rose from her seat.

"To say hello, of course. You stay here."

Dinah made a face at the order, but must've heard something in her tone that discouraged argument. Drawing up her legs, she rested her chin on her knees to watch as Callista approached the two merchants from the back.

Sir Aren's brows lifted as she prowled closer, but before he could greet her she gave a tiny shake of her head.

His brows rose even further, almost disappearing into the blond hair that fell over his forehead, but he kept silent.

The two merchants didn't notice her until she was standing at Joffren's elbow.

He jumped and skittered a half step sideways when she popped into his peripheral vision. "Ah, Miss Dunhaven," he said once he'd recovered. "Good afternoon."

She'd noticed she made him nervous the last time they spoke, which was why she'd chosen to stand so close to his side that her elbow almost brushed his own velvet-clad one. His goblin companion – whose people attached little stigma to fel magic so long as it turned a profit – had been much less cowed. "Hello, Joffren," she said, deliberately leaving off any honorific and smiling beatifically. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, no, of course not," he said, failing to meet her eyes.

Rizzle crossed his arms and glared up at her. Callista found the expression less disconcerting than his wide mouthful of teeth. With their oversized grins and pointed features, goblins never failed to remind her of small green barracuda with legs. "Actually, you are," he said bluntly.

"Really?" she said, "accidentally" knocking her elbow against Joffren's and feeling delighted when he flinched. "How unfortunate for you."

"Do you need something, Callista?" Sir Aren asked. His expression was carefully neutral, but she noticed that his hands had unclenched slightly.

"No, but these two seem to."

"Ah, just a minor business matter," Joffren said, smiling nervously as he edged away, "nothing you need concern – "

"You owe us," Rizzle said, ignoring his partner's stammering. "Those decanters alone were worth seven hundred gold!"

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sir Aren said with tight patience (Callista repressed a snort – he made it sound like the creature had lost his mother instead of a heap of fancy glass), "but the Argent Dawn is not responsible for goods destroyed by the Scourge."

"With all due respect, sir," Joffren said, having sidled as far from Callista as he could manage without wedging Rizzle against the rail, "there is some confusion as to  _who_ , exactly, is responsible for the breakage. While I have no doubt the Scourge contributed greatly to the damage, your own forces were certainly careless as well. I think two-thirds market value would be reasonable compensation."

A muscle in Sir Aren's jaw tightened briefly before he schooled his face back into its calm expression. He opened his mouth to deliver what Callista was sure was an inhumanly placid response to this idiocy, but she jumped in before he could speak. Joffren and Rizzle may have worn the garb of merchants, but at heart they were pigheaded bullies. Courteous deflection they saw only as a signal to press their arguments harder; the ruthless kind of squashing they needed was unlikely to come from Sir Aren. From her, on the other hand…

" _Re_ -think it," she snapped, narrowing her eyes on Joffren.

Startled by her sudden veer into hostility, he tried to back away another step but only succeeded in knocking against Rizzle, who cuffed at his waist.

"Watch it!" the goblin snarled. He turned his attention to Callista with his lip pulled back over his teeth. "Not your business, warlock. Tell your commander to pay up and this doesn't need to go any farther."

"'Any farther?'" she echoed, cocking her head in amusement. Goblins, like gnomes, were one of the more diminutive races of Azeroth, and, like gnomes, sometimes had difficulty getting taken seriously by people with a larger stature (and less wisdom). Some of them dealt with this more peaceably than others. Rizzle didn't strike her as the peaceable type, which was why she arranged her face into her most satiric smile. If he wasn't about to take a swing at her, he had more patience than most priests she knew. "I hope that wasn't a threat. I don't think I could stand the terror…"

"Callista," Sir Aren said sharply, shooting her a warning look.

Rizzle colored in fury. Or at least she assumed he did; his cheeks had definitely turned a more emerald shade of green. Joffren, who stood trapped between the two of them, looked ready to bolt or faint.

"Now, now," he said weakly.

"I've killed orcs twice your size," Rizzle hissed, voice shrill as his hand clenched around something hidden in the flowing folds of his cloak. "I'm a chartered bruiser of the Steamrocket Combine – "

"Keep your hands clear," Sir Aren ordered, his own straying to the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword.

They'd gathered a small crowd by now, albeit one gawking from a safe distance. Callista found that very convenient, but what pleased her even more was that no one seemed to have summoned the captain. The man was no fool and had little patience for warlocks; he would surely have separated them all by now.

She laughed, half in genuine disbelief and half because she knew it would cut. "You're a  _bruiser_? In your own family's combine? Oh, Nether, what sort of legendary failure did it take to earn  _that_? Let an ogre out-haggle you? Drop the family ledger down a well?"

It was a shot in the dark – after all, some goblin families were large, and when there were more children than overseer positions the extras had to be put somewhere through no fault of their own – but she must have hit close enough to the mark.

His face darkened to a blotchy jade and he yanked his hand from beneath his cloak with a wordless snarl of rage, fingers clenched around the stock of a bulky goblin pistol.

Before he could so much as point it at her, however, two things happened. Sir Aren's sword flashed from its scabbard, coming to rest with its edge against Rizzle's neck, and seething ropes of shadow as inky as the blade was bright erupted from the deck beneath the goblin's feet. They boiled up around his chest and arms, twining around his wrist and tightening until he dropped the pistol with a grunt of pain.

The passengers who'd been gawking shrieked and fled. A flutter of motion at the corner of her eye seized Callista's attention, and she jammed the hand still holding her book out to block Joffren as he tried to follow them. "Oh, no. Not  _you_."

Sir Aren kicked the dropped pistol so it spun away across the planks but didn't remove his blade from Rizzle's neck. The glyphs on it blazed with golden light, and Callista's shadows frayed at the edges where they writhed too close to the blessed weapon. "Alright. He's disarmed," he said. "You can let him go."

Callista studied the goblin with satisfaction as he squirmed in a translucent net of shadow the greenish-purple of bruised skin. A skein drawn across his mouth limited his comments to outraged squeaks. "I could."

She turned to Joffren instead. The man had hunched himself down as far as he could into his velvet-lined cloak, eyes big with fear. He was larger than her and probably could've pushed past her arm if he'd tried, but seemed too skittish to make the attempt. "This is outrageous," he muttered weakly. "The Steamrocket Combine – "

"Isn't here." He was too tall for Callista to effectively look down her nose at, so she didn't try. Instead she inspected the backs of the nails on her free hand, making a show of ignoring the iridescent shadows still massing around the hapless goblin. He might've disappeared inside them entirely if it hadn't been for the golden glow of the paladin's sword burning them away around his neck. "Now, you were saying something about a debt?"

"A small matter, hardly worth mentioning, just a huge misunderstanding in fact – Aah!" A questing tendril of shadow curled around his cheek, and he yelped and cringed away as though burned. He hadn't been, though he might well be if this went on too long. Fel magic wasn't constructed to be harmless, and the shadows writhing behind him were the real article. The air was as staticky and pregnant with potential as it was before a thunderstorm, but with a heavier undercurrent of dread.

"A misunderstanding? So you agree that no one but the Scourge owes you anything."

"Yes! Yes, exactly. A piddling loss anyway, hardly worth anyone's time…" Sweat beaded on his nose and forehead despite the empty chill that accompanied the rising tide of magic.

"That's enough," Sir Aren said to her firmly, watching the shadows that slid away from his sword warily. "You shouldn't have provoked them like that to begin with."

Callista held up one of the fingers of her free hand at him behind her back - just another minute. She didn't think they were quite frightened enough of her yet, not enough to remember when they were out of her sight. "Good. Now take out your parchment – I know you have some, you were waving it at me enough before – and write it down." The strain of keeping her spell from turning Rizzle into a greenish puddle of corroded goo was making the harshness in her voice less feigned than she would've liked, and the fact she loathed the grasping little monster didn't help. Neither did Sir Aren's sword, which still shone like a blade-shaped sun and seemed to slice at the very bonds that held her power in its place.

" _Enough_ , Callista." Sir Aren spoke up again as Joffren was scrabbling desperately in his pockets for a quill, and this time there was real iron in his voice. "You've made your point."

"Have I? You'll regret not letting him finish that. They'll have a bill at the doors of the Argent outpost before their cargo makes it down the gangway."

"We won't! I swear it!" Joffren gasped, fingers shaking so much ink jumped from the well in his hand. Bruised shadows, even more unnatural than usual beneath the bright sunlight, continued to writhe around Rizzle's struggling form behind him until he looked more like some kind of eldritch horror than a goblin.

"Maybe so. Let them go anyway. They're terrified." Sir Aren stirred his sword gently, trying to clear away some of the shadows clinging to Rizzle's face.

"They're supposed to be." She twitched one side of her mouth, hesitating theatrically, but after a moment she relented, half because she thought they really were frightened enough and half because the effort of keeping her magic in check was wearing on her. With a flick of her hand, the menacing shadows boiled away like morning mist.

Rizzle stumbled back against the rail as the magic binding him dissolved but quickly straightened, paler than he had been but otherwise no worse for wear.

Callista stepped aside and gestured sardonically to Joffren. He balked a moment, then darted past her at as close to a run as his dignity would allow, ink sloshing from the well he still clutched in his hand to stain his fingers. Rizzle shot her a glare that was too shaky to be truly baleful as he followed, but remained silent.

Sir Aren sheathed his sword once they'd gone and turned to face her with reproach and a little anger. "That wasn't a very honorable solution."

Callista met his gaze with unrepentant frankness. Honor ranked very low on her own personal list of priorities, and she'd never expected the paladin to approve. In fact, she'd wagered on him not noticing her game at all; if he'd realized he was playing the noble knight to her menacing villain he almost certainly would've put a stop to it much more quickly. "It wasn't a very honorable problem. They were trying to extort you."

"That's no excuse to respond in kind." He paused, apparently following a similar line of thought as she had. "I should've stopped you sooner."

"You shouldn't have stopped me at all. They might've learned something."

"What, that there's always a bigger bully in the yard? That isn't a lesson the Light means us to teach."

"No? And what lesson would it prefer? If those two go down to the Argent outpost and whinge long enough your superiors will throw them some gold just to stop the screeching. Better they learn there's always a bigger bully than continue under the delusion that they're it."

He paused, studying her face for long enough that Callista began to wonder if her vicious cynicism had struck him speechless before he responded. "You're better than that."

It was such an unlikely thing to say that for a moment she just stared, dissecting his tone for sarcasm that she didn't find. Even Tun, who was her best friend in the world and liked her more than anyone, knew better than to claim she was above anything. If he was serious (and he always seemed to be), Sir Aren was either the blindest optimist or the poorest judge of character she had ever met. "Doubtful. But I'm certainly better  _at_   _it_."

Sir Aren just gave a brief, crooked smile (and all his smiles, she'd noticed, were a little lopsided, as though he'd been out of practice once and hadn't quite recovered the knack yet), watching her intently enough that she actually felt a small flush of discomfort before he shook his head. "I'm sure those two poor merchants used to say the same. And what will you do when you find your own nastier match?"

Callista considered that for a moment, then cocked her head impishly. "Marry him, probably."

For a moment she thought he was actually, improbably, going to laugh, but he caught himself in time, marshalling his features back into an exasperated frown. He opened his mouth (to continue scolding her, no doubt), then seemed to change his mind and shut it again. Instead he rolled his eyes in surrender, the way he did when Ander made a particularly perverse quip. "It's easier to picture you setting that tentacled beast of yours on him."

Delighted to have gotten around him, she answered with a more devilish look than usual. "I can't try both?"

He shook his head again and this time he really did laugh. "I pity your future husband."

Callista thought about pointing out that he was probably pitying no one, then decided against it. She'd given more serious thought to joining the Burning Legion than she ever had to marriage; her lifestyle didn't lend itself very well to commitment, consistency, honesty, or a whole slew of other things common wisdom held were necessary for it. This wasn't information she generally volunteered, though. Some people seemed to consider a young woman who didn't want children even more unnatural than a warlock.

She quirked a brow instead. "Why? I thought we just established he was worse."

"I suppose we did. Whatever happened to women wanting white knights?"

She tilted her head, trying to decide if he was flirting with her or just oblivious. The paladin wore the onyx and silver tabard of the Argent Dawn today, not white, but she'd always preferred black knights anyway. "They went out with puffed sleeves and smelling salts," she said, compromising by teasing him only a little. " _I_  always wanted to marry a pirate."

Speaking of pirates, she was surprised Captain Verner hadn't already come over to shout at her for frightening his passengers. The man had shown her somewhat less contempt since she'd helped save his ship, but not that much; it would probably be best to let Sir Aren deal with him. She supposed those white knights had their uses after all.

Whatever Sir Aren may have answered to her dig was interrupted by the stentorian yell of the lookout posted in the crow's nest.

"Land ahead! Laaaand ahead!"

Cheers and whistles rose clear from the passengers on deck and floated up muffled from those below. She thought she could pick out Ander's distinctively raucous whoop among the voices and laughed in response.

"Over at last," Sir Aren said, shading his brow with his hand and squinting out towards the horizon.

Callista followed his gaze, but her eyes weren't sharp enough to make out anything over the hard gleam of the waves. This wasn't over yet, but once she got ashore she intended to make it that way.

* * *

"Not bad," Wynda said, smacking her lips and swirling the frothy beer in her mug, "but no Ironforge brew."

They sat in the common room of the Fish Eye Tavern, empty except for a chattering trio of gnomes in one corner and a pair of bored-looking Sentinels near the bar. Auberdine was an important port for the Alliance in Kalimdor, but the damp fog that perpetually shrouded it discouraged most travelers from lingering. Those who did mostly preferred the more cheerful inn in the center of town to the seedy Fisheye, but Aren had chosen it for its proximity to the road to Felwood, not its atmosphere.

He took an experimental sip of his own mug of the house brew. Not quite as thick and bitter as the stouts the dwarves favored, but it had an unusual nutty flavor that he found he liked. "I'm surprised the barley will grow at all in this soup."

Thick grey mist gathered outside the warped glass of the windows, and the smoke swirling around the gracefully-carved rafters made it seem as though the gloom had crept inside as well. Even so, it couldn't dampen his good mood at finally being off that ship.

Vorthaal drained half his mug in one swig and then sniffed dismissively at the remainder. "I have had much worse, but all of your ale tastes like strange water to me. When we return you must come with me to the Exodar and I will show you true drink."

Wynda laughed. "Strange water, aye? Come with me to Dun Morogh and I'll show you what  _real_  beer tastes like. Thick enough to cut with a knife and strong enough to knock even a draenei onto his tailed arse."

Vorthaal smiled in return, eyes bright in the smoky dimness. "Is that a challenge?"

"Better hope not," Nathanial said, wiping foam from his mouth with the back of a hand. "Wynda could out-drink a monsterbelly."

"Don't listen to my brother," Ander put in with a grin. "He's just sore 'cause he's a lightweight."

"Uh-huh. And  _which_  of us was it who threw up all over the Trade District last Brewfest?"

"I don't remember that!"

"I'll  _bet_  you don't," Nathanial grumbled. "I'm surprised the canals didn't run green until solstice."

"Ach. My infant nephew could drink you  _both_  under the bar," Wynda said impishly, "and then drink that too. Human lads just don't start young enough."

Aren left them to their banter, content to sip his beer in silence. He'd had a long afternoon supervising the unloading of their supplies and mounts, and even though it was nearly a bell before sundown he was already ready to retire. He probably would've done so already, if he hadn't been waiting for Luciel and Callista to return. Callista more so than Luciel, if truth be told. While the night elf was simply visiting friends who lived near the port, Callista had gone to the tradepost to check for letters from her highly-placed friends in Stormwind, and she'd made no secret of the fact she was still looking for a way to free herself of their journey. While Aren was angry at whoever had dared try to blackmail her into helping them, he was ashamed to acknowledge the small, selfish hope that she wouldn't find what she was looking for. He wanted her with them, for both practical reasons and others he didn't care to examine too closely.

"Maybe we should settle this right now," Ander suggested, waggling his brows playfully.

Vorthaal shifted on his oversized stool so it creaked under his weight, eyeing Aren uncertainly. "Are you sure that that is wise? We must leave at first light tomorrow."

Aren hid a smile by taking another swallow of his own drink. He couldn't responsibly tell his command that he'd turn a blind eye if they were sluggish next morning, but this was the last night in a real town they were likely to get before they reached Felwood, and he would rather they got it out of their systems now. The Light taught moderation in all things, but too much moderation was as bad for morale as too little. "As long as you can sit a mount at daybreak…"

"Don't worry, Nate will help me tie you on to make up for the embarrassment you're about to suffer," Ander said with wide-eyed sympathy.

Vorthaal snorted and flicked his thick tail dismissively against the leg of his stool. "I have been drinking since before your great-grandsires were born."

Pursing his lips amiably at Wynda, Aren stood and drained what was left in his mug. His company was small, and his relationship with his soldiers was much friendlier than he'd had with many of his own commanders, but he still knew they'd enjoy themselves more if he made himself scarce. That had stung once, when he'd taken his first command amid the decaying ruins of Andorhal; he'd already lost so much, and being set apart from the few of his friends who remained living had seemed an unexpected, unfair kind of hurt. It had gotten easier since then, though. Or maybe he'd just gotten better at setting aside that kind of companionship. "I'm going to go see if I can track down Luciel or Callista."

Vorthaal and the twins were too absorbed in their argument to take any notice, but Wynda nodded a farewell.

As he stepped out of the smoky confines of the tavern, Aren took a deep breath of the humid air. Though it was tinged with salt from the nearby sea, the green smell of growing things was still welcome after so long away from land.

He followed the cobbled street towards Tassik's Tradepost, nodding politely at the occasional night elf who crossed his path. They all returned the gesture cordially enough, but there was nothing warm in their expressions. On the one other occasion he'd visited Auberdine, he'd found it to be a cheerless place, and that impression was only solidified on this second visit. Even the weeds that poked up through the cobbles looked washed out. The sky was a misty grey, and long pine boughs dipped low over the road in some places, dripping moisture.

"Sir Aren!"

Recognizing Callista's voice, he tipped his chin in acknowledgment as a figure resolved itself through the fog.

She broke into a half jog to meet him, holding in one hand what looked to be a letter with an elaborate wax seal at the bottom of it. "I take back anything awful I ever said about the nobility," she said as she halted before him. Clad in her usual grey cloak with the mist pearling in her hair, he thought she looked rather elegant, though he had an impulse to press a healing prayer to the sunburn splotched across her nose that he was sure she would've laughed at.

"You got your letter?" he asked rather inanely, trying to sound more pleased than he felt.

She laughed. "Oh, yes. Full immunity, in fact. Lord Duncan doesn't believe in half measures."

Looking closer at the parchment she offered for his inspection, he noticed that the blue wax of the seal was flecked with gold leaf that glittered in the dimness. King Anduin's childish signature scrawled across the letter beside it. No half measures, indeed. He wondered what favors she'd called in to gain that pardon, or how much she now owed her noble benefactor. "Good. I'm glad it worked out for you."

Her head tilted as she watched him, and he refused to drop her gaze as she eyed him closely for a long silent moment. "I did tell you I wasn't coming," she said finally, more gently than he might have expected.

"I – yes, I know you did. But…why not reconsider?" he said, words spilling out before even he was sure what his argument was. "That's a royal pardon, no one can force you into anything anymore. And you've already come all the way to Kalimdor. It would be an adventure."

She folded up her letter and tucked it into a small leather pouch that hung at her side. "I'm not looking for adventure. I'm not a crusader." She kept her voice soft, but there was an edge beneath it.

He refused to be deterred by it. "Neither am I, or the Argent Dawn. This isn't some holy assault to cleanse Felwood. Just an opportunity to help."

Her mouth twitched with the barest hint of amusement. "The greater good? Is that the best argument you can make for me to risk my life for you?"

He hesitated awkwardly for a moment. What did she expect him to say to that? What  _could_  he say? "Of course," he lied stiffly. "There's no greater cause under the Light."

"And how convenient that is." He'd always liked watching her eyes, which were an attractive shade of grey and held an almost perpetual amusement he found fascinating, but there was something unpleasantly sardonic in them now. Whatever she'd expected him to say, he'd obviously chosen poorly. "I'm heading back to the tavern. Goodbye, Sir Aren, if I don't see you before daybreak."

"Aren is fine," he said dully and somewhat irrelevantly, trying to sort out a bewildered tangle of emotion and startled by the abrupt end of the conversation. "You're not in my company anymore, it doesn't…"

"Goodbye, Aren, then," she said.

The edge of her cloak brushed his arm as she moved past, and his fingers twitched with a sudden impulse to grab her elbow to stop her, but he wasn't any surer how to convince her now than he'd been ten heartbeats earlier and so he simply let her go.

After she'd vanished down the cobbled street, he continued to watch the mist swirl lacy patterns in the space she'd left. He had to follow her, of course – there was nowhere for him to go but back to the tavern, himself – but he was loath to run into her again on the path.  _Idiot_ , he thought to himself savagely. Though he couldn't quite make up his mind as to where the stupidity lay; whether it was in the way he'd bungled the conversation or the fact he'd hoped for any other answer from her. The woman was a  _warlock_ , for Light's sake. Maybe it was a blessing she'd left before he'd had the chance to do anything even more foolish.

Somehow he couldn't quite make himself believe it, though.

Judging that he'd given her a safe-enough head start, he began wandering back towards the tavern, slowly so as not to catch up. Fat drops of condensation plopped down from the pine boughs that overhung the street. He silently asked the Light for clarity, but all he got was chilled as a particularly large branch shed its cloak of droplets onto his bare head. He would miss her, he realized uncomfortably, and not just for her knack with the arcane. Whatever Callista's flaws, she was clever, self-possessed, and made it almost impossible to brood in her presence. When she looked at him, he saw neither the pity nor the glory-worship he'd found in the eyes of so many women since he'd escaped the wrack of Lordaeron, and that was comforting. Aren thought of himself as any number of things, when he bothered to think of himself at all – soldier, survivor, servant of the Holy Light – but victim and war hero were two titles that sat equally ill on him. Whatever Callista thought of him (and he wasn't foolish enough to imagine that those thoughts were always flattering), at least he was sure that her opinions were of  _him_.

The weathered grey door of the Fisheye Tavern appeared ahead like a solidifying of the fog. He eyed it warily for a moment before a flush of embarrassment for loitering outside the door like a farmboy at his first harvest dance steeled his resolve. Under the pretense of checking that the inn had found proper accommodations for his destrier, he headed off towards the stables.

* * *

When she pushed open the door, Callista was amused to find Wynda, Vorthaal and the Redbranches with their heads tilted back in identical gestures as they downed shots of some murky brown liquor.

"I hope you ordered one for me," she said, sliding onto the empty stool next to Wynda.

"Ugh, here, take mine," Nathanial said, gagging and pushing a shot glass across the table at her. "Dwarvish whiskey, tastes like something they use to fuel those gyropters."

"Quitter," Ander said, despite the fact he had the sickly-pale expression of a man struggling to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged.

Wynda snorted good-naturedly. She didn't look nearly as miserable as the two men, but her freckled nose had flushed almost as red as her hair. "You both drink like little gnome lasses."

"That is most foul," Vorthaal said, though he sounded almost admiring. He tugged thoughtfully at the ring that adorned one of his facial tendrils as he eyed his second shot glass.

Suddenly suspecting she'd made a horrible mistake, Callista sniffed at her glass and immediately wished she hadn't as the reek of raw alcohol burned her nose. She wasn't about to back down now, though. Especially not after everyone else had tried it. Holding her breath, she rested the rim of the shot glass on her bottom lip and threw her head back sharply.

Despite the fact she couldn't taste anything, the sensation of the liquor searing its way to her belly was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She'd drunk an entire flagon of molasses firewater last Lunar Festival (mostly because Tun seemed to think she couldn't) and the next morning found that the stuff had raised blisters on her tongue, but this was by far worse. "Twisting Nether," she choked once she was sure the liquor wasn't going to follow the words up.

Wynda laughed heartily at her reaction and thumped her on the back. "Head up, lass, the second one's always easier."

Recognizing a bald-faced lie when she heard one, Callista made a face, scrunching up her nose and working her mouth as she tried to rid herself of the aftertaste. "That is distilled  _evil_."

"You would know," Ander said, prodding his empty shot glass distrustfully with a fingertip and winking at her.

She bared her teeth playfully at him, but as the distraction of the terrible whiskey wore off her nagging sense of discomfort returned. This time tomorrow, she'd be waiting for a boat to Stormwind while everyone else at this table was halfway to Felwood. It was what she'd hoped for ever since she'd set foot on  _The Fortitude_ , but now that she'd gotten it she was loath to tell her companions that she was leaving. It felt unpleasantly ( _and completely irrationally_ , she told herself sharply) like betrayal.

" _I'll_ get the next round," Nathanial said, pushing back his stool and gathering up the empty shot glasses. "Wynda is trying to murder our insides."

"Only the weak bits. They were probably only slowing down the rest anyway."

Callista snorted, wondering where Sir Aren had gone after their encounter on the street. Not back here, obviously…the thought caused her another of those uncomfortable pangs. She hadn't meant to cut things off like that. She'd never expected him to beg her to stay, but she hadn't expected an earful of trite piousness either, and that had irritated her. She could appreciate a good lie, but bad ones were just insulting.

Nathanial returned with a large stoppered jug in one hand and an armful of cups gathered against his chest with the other. "Moonberry wine," he said, setting his load down on the table with a clatter. "Not as strong, but I thought we could use something sweet after that."

"You say that like I can still feel my tongue," Ander said, sticking out the appendage in question and poking at it.

"Did you happen to run into Sir Aren out there, lass?" Wynda asked as she accepted a cup.

_Yes, and promptly sent him running the other way._  "Only for a moment. I don't know where he went after."

Wynda nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer.

Callista took a sip of her own wine and found it, as promised, dry and slightly sweet. Very good, actually, but she realized to her own consternation that she couldn't enjoy it. Feeling a sudden urge to pace, she stood, pushing her stool back abruptly enough that it teetered onto its back legs and fell upright again with a clatter. "I'll be back," she said, repressing a wince as she steadied it. "I just need to stretch after all that sailing."

It was a weak excuse, but no one seemed to question it. Ander's wave as he acknowledged her departure was sloppier than usual, and she wondered how much they'd had to drink before she sat down. Being the soberest one in the room was never any fun anyway, and she wasn't in the mood to try to catch up.

She strode out past a pair of Sentinels who eyed her briefly as she shoved open the door, then stood for a moment in the chilly fog that swallowed the town. The grey afternoon was fading into a murky twilight, and the cool breeze seemed only to stir the mist into more phantasmagoric shapes without dispersing it. With no real destination in mind, she began wandering around the side of the tavern, leaving dark footprints in her wake as she knocked the silvery dew from the grass.

A pall always seemed to hang over Auberdine. It reminded Callista a little of a graveyard, or the ravaged plain of some terrible long-ago battlefield, but as far as she knew no such tragedy had occurred here. Maybe she was just letting her own foul mood color her surroundings. Even so, she found the idea of spending several days alone here waiting for a ship highly unpleasant.

Rounding the corner of the inn, she caught sight of the distinctive broad-shouldered, black-and-silver-garbed figure of Sir Aren exiting the large stable at its back and froze uncertainly.

The question of whether he'd seen her or not was answered when he paused a moment before walking straight for her.

She crossed her arms and waited resignedly for him, not sure she cared for the purposefulness of his stride. He had the look of a man who had made up his mind and was determined to do something about it, and she couldn't imagine herself being very pleased over anything he'd decided.

When he'd approached to a comfortable speaking distance, he stopped and smiled somewhat wryly at her. "If you're going to check on your horse, don't bother. The stablekeep is Kaldorei, and I think he likes those animals better than he does us."

Not quite the confrontational opening she'd expected, but she remained wary anyway. "No, just out for some air." She waved a hand, fraying the mist between her spread fingers. "Such as there is."

He nodded silently, then seemed to hesitate, smile falling into a more serious expression.

Sensing he wanted to broach his real point but also aware that she was much better at enduring awkward silences than he was, Callista left him to dangle rather than voicing an opening. If he insisted on having this conversation again, she supposed she owed him enough to listen, but that didn't mean she had to make it easy.

"Look," he said finally, lowering his voice. "I know I didn't make a very convincing argument last time, but I honestly think you're making a mistake by leaving. Ah, no, let me finish," he said, cutting her off as she opened her mouth to interrupt. "I know you're angry about how this started, and justifiably so. You don't want to play into the hands of whoever forced you here, but I don't think running blindly back to Stormwind is the right choice either."

She tilted her head, wholly unconvinced but curious as to where Sir Aren thought he was going with this, leaving her arms crossed. "Oh, trust me, I have no intention of running blindly anywhere."

"Then you know who did this to you?"

"No," she said dismissively. Not yet, at least. She may not have had a name, but what she  _did_  have was gold (her demon-catching business had proven extremely lucrative), and that was nearly as good. Between the wars with the Burning Legion on Outland, the Horde closer to home, and the Defias bandits in its own backyard, Stormwind's coffers had become distressingly empty of late, and noble titles were being sold with far less of the traditional insistence on respectability. Provided one knew how (expensively) to ask, of course. Callista's plan included buying one, using the purchased influence to hunt down whoever was responsible for blackmailing her, and sticking what shreds of his soul were left after her demons were finished with him in a jar over her fireplace. She doubted, however, that Sir Aren would think much of a plan that involved bribery and power-mongering to facilitate murder, and so she chose not to scandalize him with the truth.

"Do you even know what they want from you?" he pressed.

"No."

"Then why not come with us. It's probably your best chance of learning something you can use."

"Or getting a felguard's axe as a permanent hat," she said skeptically.

He smiled briefly at that, then shook his head. The gesture caused a swath of blond hair to fall over one of his eyes in a way that might have been endearing, if Callista had been the kind of woman softheaded enough to be swayed by such things. "Do you ever let anyone talk you into anything?"

She uncrossed her arms and shrugged, trying to inject as much apology as she could into the gesture to lessen the sting of refusal. "Only if I meant to do it anyway."

"Fine. I'll dispense with reason, then," he said, lifting his mouth in a half-smile. "Why not do it for friendship?"

She laughed. "I'd return overdue tomes from the Mage's Sanctum for friendship. Strolling blithely through a Burning Legion stronghold, however…"

"Sounds like you need to find better friends."

Her mind jumped suddenly to Tun, standing with her on the red sands of a strange world while flame seared the sky and demons tore each other to pieces around her, and even though she'd never believed in letting honesty get in the way of a useful conversation she couldn't bring herself to continue the lie. "Not true," she said more seriously.

After that there was silence. Mist swirled around them, and Callista suddenly realized how dark it had gotten. The stable was unlit, and she could no longer make out its low outline through the black curtain of fog. Muffled voices traveled ghostly through the logs of the tavern wall to her left, and she shivered in the sea-scented breeze that blew in from the water. It was cold, now that the sun had gone down.

She was just about to suggest they move back inside when the brush of his hand against her cheek stopped her. She froze, surprised – the man had sometimes seemed so stiffly full of honor she'd suspected he'd ask her to marry him before he'd touch her, but perhaps that had been unfair – as he traced her jaw with the calloused pad of his thumb.

She  _should_  push him away, but she  _wanted_  not to.

For a moment she hesitated, letting him cup her cheek in his sword-roughened palm but not returning the gesture, until annoyance and disgust at her own indecision asserted themselves and she pulled his hand away. "You don't want to do that," she said, trying to keep her voice light but not quite managing.

"If I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't have done it." In the dark he smelled of hay and horse and the oil he used to care for his armor, and why did he always have to be so wretchedly  _earnest_.

"I'm  _not_  going with you, and I'm not doing this either," she said, narrowing her eyes and putting more steel into her words than she felt. Callista had always liked her arguments complicated and her relationships simple, and this reeked of complicated if she'd ever smelled it. Maybe Sir Aren was foolish enough not to care, but she knew better.

"This isn't about whether you stay or go," he said gently, reaching out for her again but not quite touching her cheek.

She laid her fingers on the back of his hand and nudged it away firmly but as kindly as she knew how. "Neither is this."

She felt more than saw him watching her through the opaque night, but he didn't try to touch her again. This was the right thing, she was certain; she was already conflicted enough about her choices without adding some ridiculous entanglement to the mix. Besides, they'd make a terrible match. He was gentle, honorable to a fault, completely honest, Twisting Nether, he was a genuine Light-worshipping  _paladin_ …

"I thought you'd say that," he said, and she could hear that lopsided smile in his voice as he turned to leave, "but I've already lost too many chances to circumstance to start giving them up for cowardice."

Suddenly unsure, she actually reached out a hand to stop him before she caught herself. That was a terrible idea, it was already over, all she had to do was let him go…but everything was relative, a traitorous voice whispered, and next to the long litany of idiotic things she'd done for much worse reasons she wasn't sure this even ranked.

"Aren, wait," she said.

When he turned to look at her again, she kissed him.


	12. Crossroads

She'd almost left anyway.

Callista woke with a start in the dark room, feeling the warm heavy weight of a man's arm across her chest. It couldn't have been far past midnight; faded squares of starlight patched the coverlet, but murky shadows hid the edges of the room. She tensed quietly, annoyed with herself. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Not if she wanted to slip out of the inn before dawn, and it would be much harder with Aren holding her like that.

He'd said this wasn't about whether she stayed or went...

His slow breaths warmed her shoulder. Turning her head against the pillow, her gaze lingered for a moment on his tousled hair and the way sleep had smoothed the strain from his usually taut features. A soft, heavy wave of exhaustion rolled over her. It would be so much easier to stay.

But the path of least resistance, in this case, led through Felwood. Was it truly worth it?

Holding her breath, Callista shifted carefully out from under his arm towards the edge of the mattress, wincing at every crunch of the straw within. Fortunately, Aren never stirred, even when his hand dropped from her chest to the blanket beneath.

The flagstones were cold against her bare feet as she padded to the crumpled pile of fabric near the door and pulled on the rest of her clothes. She picked up her boots in one hand, shivering in the night air, and couldn't stop herself from looking back at the rumpled blankets and the sleeping man beneath them. Guilt pricked at her. This wasn't the first time she'd crept out of a strange room well before dawn, but it was the first time she suspected she might feel bad about it later. Aren wasn't just some nameless stranger from The Slaughtered Lamb, after all. He deserved better.

Callista's eyes narrowed against the shadows. But then, she deserved better than to be muscled into some scatterbrained quest she wanted no part of. Whoever really got what they deserved anyway? She'd made him no promises.

Creeping to the door, she pulled it open only the sliver she needed to slip out and closed it silently behind her.

The corridor beyond was dim, only every other lantern glowing on its hook. The room she shared with Wynda was one door down from Aren's, and, much to her discomfort, bars of light winked from the gaps in the frame. Callista made a face. Leaning against the wall, she pulled on her boots by hopping awkwardly on one leg. She'd been hoping the dwarf was already asleep, but it appeared she wasn't going to be that lucky. Well, maybe the other woman had simply forgotten to douse the lantern.

Callista opened the door, and Wynda raised her head from the small table near the window and quirked an auburn brow at her. Her gaze was surprisingly clear, given the sharp smell of booze that wafted from the room. Much to Callista's amusement, she was clad only in her undyed cotton underthings, freckled arms crossed on the tabletop. "Back already, lass?"

Callista wrinkled her nose in feigned ignorance. "'Already'? It's got to be close to dawn." She peered more closely at Wynda. "What happened to your clothes? Don't tell me Ander talked you into one of his drinking games."

Wynda laughed and waved a hand at the scattered articles flung across her bed. "I spilled a glass o' whiskey and the smell was makin' my head spin."

Callista snorted good-naturedly. Wynda really  _was_  drunk. Her words were deceptively unslurred, but her Ironforge brogue had noticeably thickened. "Yes, I'm sure it was only the  _smell_  making you sick."

"Ach, don't you give me that tone! They haven't yet brewed the drink that'll turn a dwarf's stomach." She chuckled. "Though that's more than I can say for the twins. Vorthaal had to carry one out under each arm like sleepy baby lambs." Her grin shifted into a sagely approving expression. "Now there's a man of the Light who can hold his liquor." She muttered something under her breath that Callista couldn't quite catch, but sounded suspiciously like "Pity about the hooves."

Callista gave a whoop of laughter and plopped onto her bed, pulling off her boots with a grin. "Oh, really? Well, if the worst you can say is you don't like his  _feet_ …"

Wynda clucked her tongue at her. "You know what I meant!"

"Uh-huh."

There was a brief companionable silence. Wynda's voice, when she spoke again, was gentle. "So, what  _are_  you doin' up, lass? Not plannin' on just vanishin', I hope. I think we've all at least earned a proper goodbye."

That startled her, but Callista was too practiced a liar to let it show. "Vanish?" She arched a brow in confusion. "Wrong kind of arcanist..."

"I know what you are." There was no malice in the statement or her gaze, but it still made Callista want to fidget uncomfortably. She had the same knowing, direct look Tun always had when he'd caught her out at something and wasn't letting her get away with it. The thought of her friend caused her another unpleasant twinge. She suspected he wouldn't exactly approve of what she was planning to do.

"You're a pretty liar, but it's clear you're no mercenary. Aren told me why you're here."

Callista grimaced. So much for sneaking off without a scene. "Then you know why I'm leaving."

"Aye, I know why you say you are – but I think it's a poor excuse."

Callista leaned forward aggressively, curling her short nails into the quilt she sat on. "Why? Doesn't it worry you that your whole mission may be based on lies?"

Wynda snorted. "If that were true, I'd wager a few falsehoods would worry you a great deal less than me."

Callista narrowed her eyes at the jab, but made no retort; she supposed she deserved that.

"At its heart, it's a matter of trust," Wynda continued. "Our High Command are good, competent men and women. So is Sir Aren. I don't believe they'd deliberately send us wrong, or that they're the Light-addled fools you seem to think they are – and don't me give that look, lass, you've made it very clear what you think o' our faith. Whatever you did to make someone cast your name in where it didn't belong, doesn't mean the whole mission is corrupt. Muradin's beard, maybe even that was just a mistake. Not every misfortune is black conspiracy. Hang around with fiends too much and eventually you start to think like them."

Callista scowled. She was willing to take her knocks where she'd earned them, but there was only one person on Azeroth who got to lecture her that way, and it was not a drunk (albeit impressively lucid) dwarf in her underwear. "If you think _I_  sound like a fiend, then you've never really met one. Though you will, if you insist on strolling through Felwood. Spare me your Argent fairytales."

"Peace, lass," Wynda said, holding up her hands placatingly. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh, no? Then what did you mean?"

Wynda sighed and looked at her frankly. "I think you're a sharp-tongued piece of work, for one thing," she grumbled. "But more than that, I think you're leaving because you're angry. You think someone's wronged you, and you want to punish them. I think you should reconsider. Even if you're right, isn't runnin' back to Stormwind full o' fury and felfire exactly what whoever did this would expect you to do?"

Possible, but unlikely. "Unless they never expected me to make it back at all."

Wynda chuckled briefly. "Are there really that many people out to kill you?"

Callista scrunched up her nose, made to retort, then actually thought about it. If she were honest, then no, she supposed there weren't. Given what she was, her reputation (as far as she knew) was fairly benign. "Even so. Why should I go with you? It's risky, and there's nothing at all I could possibly gain."

"Are you so certain of that?"

Callista cocked her head coolly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Wynda twitched the corner of her mouth, unimpressed. "Say whatever you like. Just think it over. You're right that it's likely to be dangerous. But the danger will be much less with someone who knows how to deal with those creatures. Whether you want to hear it or not, we need you."

Callista shifted defensively. Your needs are  _not_  my responsibility, was what she wanted to sneer. But the words stuck to her tongue even as she began to speak, and somewhere along the way she'd become too fond of the other woman to want to be that cruel. Instead she groaned and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Twisting Nether, it was too late and she was far too tired to deal with this. She actually missed treating with her "fiends" as Wynda called them; say what you would about demons, at least their conversations were never overburdened with feelings.

"I need to sleep," she muttered, crawling into bed without bothering to undress. The idea of hauling herself and all her things across the damp Auberdine night to another tavern had become too harrowing to seriously consider. And if the Last Haven had closed, she'd need to sleep outside, which would be even worse. She could leave in the morning. Waking before the others wouldn't be difficult, if their general level of sobriety was anything like Wynda's.

Flopping facedown onto the mattress, she pulled the pillow over her head, hoping Wynda would take the hint.

She didn't.

"One last thing, lass."

She paused until Callista capitulated, rolling onto her side and shifting the pillow to peer at her crankily out of one eye.

"I don't know what you and Aren think you're up to, and I daresay he's a grown man who can look after himself. I will say if either o' you are after more than a quick roll, you're both knuckleheaded fools, and I won't hold it against either o' you when it all falls apart. But ," - for the first time in the conversation, she looked truly stern – "be any crueler than you need to be, and I'll box your ears so hard your ancestors will hear the ringin'."

Now that was just uncalled for. Glaring balefully out of her visible eye, Callista spat a sharp curse in demonic at the serious braid-framed face above her.

Wholly unoffended, Wynda settled back into her chair. "I'll have to remember some of that for the fiends." Yawning, she rested her head comfortably onto her crossed arms.

Exhausted, but also more agitated than she'd felt for months, Callista stuffed the pillow back over her face and waited fruitlessly for sleep.

* * *

Aren stirred as the first faint glow of dawn cracked the sky.

He rolled over and stretched, blinking slowly awake in the colorless light that seeped through the fog-pearled window. Even through his grogginess, something seemed…off.

He yawned and propped himself up against his flattened pillow, drowsily trying to take stock. His legs were tangled in the rough sheets, his clothes lay in a heap where they'd fallen the night before…and he was alone.

Oh.

He gave a tired sigh and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to stem the disappointment he felt welling up like a cold pool in his belly and berating himself for his own stupidity. What had he expected, truly? She'd never said she would stay, and Callista didn't seem the type to take a chance on what might only be a silly infatuation.

Still.

He wasn't a complete fool. And he'd always believed in saying what he meant. He'd been truthful when he told her he didn't expect her to follow him anywhere, but did she really have to sneak out like that? How little respect did she have for him?

The anger dulled the edge of the hurt, and so he held onto it. They had very far to travel today, and their warlock running out on him - them - didn't change that. The others would be waiting for him.

Pushing away the twisted blankets, he stood, shuddering at the chill stone underfoot. The water in the basin was fresh but cold, and he shaved and washed his face quickly before strapping on his armor. He murmured his morning prayers as he dressed, beseeching the Light for wisdom and forbearance and protection, and felt the familiar peace softening the edges of his agitation. He'd always liked prayer and the clarity it brought to his thoughts, even if it didn't often survive contact with the muddy chaos of the rest of his life. If he'd been born into a world less full of insistent peril, he thought sometimes that he might have joined a monastery. He suspected it would've been simpler.

The edge of the sun had almost cleared the grey horizon by the time he was ready to leave. He picked up the knapsack containing the few belongings he hadn't left with their baggage in the stables and rolled his shoulders beneath the comfortingly thick metal of his pauldrons.

He pushed open the door, and any lingering clarity vanished immediately.

Callista lounged in the hallway just outside, sitting on an overstuffed canvas pack with her back against the drab wood of the wainscoting. Most of the lanterns had burned out and not been relit, and the chains of runes on her robes glowed like embers in the shadows. A dagger hung from the belt at her waist. Altogether, she did not look at all like a women simply waiting for the next ship home.

"Wynda told me to dress for a fight," she said, glancing down at the fel enchantments on her sleeve with a dry grin. "I guess she was right, because there's a pair of Sentinels downstairs who look like they want to fight me right now."

"Er," Aren said, inadequately. Anger flared through him, swiftly quenched by confusion into a heavy core of muddled embarrassment and irritation. Was she just toying with him? That he would wake up alone and Callista would still be coming with them was not a possibility he had prepared himself for. Technically, he was still her commanding officer. He'd been more than half sure she'd leave this morning, but, if she hadn't, he'd been willing to risk the potential minor breach of protocol (she was not really part of the Dawn, after all) for the chance at something more meaningful. This, however...What exactly did you say to a woman who spent the night with you and then vanished before the clothes on the floor had time to wrinkle? Then turned up again at sunrise, prepared to, possibly, brave a forest full of demons for you?

"Sorry about this morning," she said, pulling up one side of her mouth sheepishly. "I needed time to pack."

Aren was not so naïve as to believe that that was the whole truth. Or even most of it. All the same, she didn't look entirely unrepentant, and it cooled his indignation slightly. She was still here, at least, and she wasn't pretending that nothing had happened. "Look, you can't just - I didn't think – what were you - ," he gave the sentence up as a botched job and squeezed his eyes shut briefly before starting again. "Okay. Alright. Just, alright. We can talk about this later." He hesitated, unable to completely suppress his irritation. "It's only…couldn't you at least wake me up next time?"

He thought she might have winced, but it could have just been a play of the hall's deep shadow across her face. Would it have killed her to look even a little bit flustered? It would've made Aren feel less like an idiot. He suspected he looked like an idiot. He suspected he might  _be_  an idiot.

"Alright," she said finally.

He stared at her, hard, but her expression was so bland he couldn't make out if she meant anything by it. Light, why couldn't she ever just speak plainly? Shaking his head in surrender, he hefted his knapsack onto his shoulder. "Come on, the others are probably waiting."

* * *

It took three days of travel before the first signs of corruption scarred the forest around them. The trees grew tall and broad as ever, bark shaggy with age, but grey mold slimed the leaves underfoot and many of the largest trunks were dead and tumorous with orange mushrooms.

"This is a great shame," Vorthaal said, touching the bark of a particularly huge deadfall gently. "Some of these trees are older than I am."

"This glade was beautiful once," Luciel said. She'd been even more taciturn than usual since they'd reached the borders of the cursed forest, mouth pressing into a harder line with each ruined vale they passed. "My people paid a high price to destroy the arch-demon, but it will be many mortal lifetimes before this land is whole."

"Depressing," Ander muttered, too quietly for anyone but Callista to hear.

She shot him a silent grimace of agreement. They'd set off from Auberdine cheerfully enough (despite the ferocious hangovers sported by half their party), but the closer they got to Felwood the blacker the pall that seemed to settle over all of them. Darkshore was aptly named. A fitful drizzle had begun to fall the evening of their first day, and any thinning of the mist only revealed massive trees with drooping limbs and broken kaldorei ruins sad as eyeless faces.

At least the rain and the subdued atmosphere had made it easy to avoid a prolonged conversation with Aren. He'd tried to catch her alone once, the first time they made camp, but then the clouds had opened and she'd sidled away with the excuse of collecting firewood before it got too wet to burn. Transparent avoidance, but she didn't care. She knew Aren wanted to discuss what had happened that night at the inn, but Callista had no interest in that particular conversation. Not until she figured out what she meant to say, anyway. What, exactly, was the most politic way to tell the leader of your scouting expedition that you'd only slept with him because you'd wholly intended to desert at the time?

"So, how long until we find a demon?" Ander asked, glancing almost hopefully into the dying underbrush.

Callista shrugged, and adjusted her hood to stave off the irregular drip of rain through the leaves. "Probably not for a while. We'd be lucky to find a mad furbolg this close to Auberdine."

They were already walking several paces behind the rest of the party, but Ander still flicked his eyes dramatically from side to side before taking a confidential step closer and whispering, "I'll give you five coppers to summon a doomguard straight into the cooking fire."

Callista laughed softly. She sympathized. Meals had become such a dismal affair a little indiscriminate violence might improve them. Partly her own fault, she supposed, but that didn't mean she was enjoying it. "Only five? You know I'd need to  _murder_  someone, right?"

"One more evening watching Luciel and Sir Aren sigh into their soup, and I'll pay you double to murder me," he muttered.

"Deal." She stuck out a hand, and Ander gave it a firm mocking shake.

"I can hear you two scheming back there!" Wynda's voice drifted back over the crunch of dead leaves and the creak of wooden wheels. Nothing in Felwood was fit to eat or drink, so they carried what they needed in a cart pulled by a hardy drafthorse. They'd all left their mounts at the last night elven outpost, and everyone but Vorthaal took turns driving.

"I do not scheme!" Ander called back in a lofty tone. "Though I occasionally negotiate hijinks."

"I schemed once!" Callista volunteered.

"Aye, I bet you did. Though I trust you'd know better than to encourage any idea of Ander's. Don't make me come back there!"

"You're not my real mom!" Ander howled.

Wynda's strident laughter made even the doleful patter of rain through the leaves seem lighter.

Vorthaal chuckled. "Ah, youthful exhuberance." He and Luciel strode on either side of the cart. The dranei's giant crystal warhammer remained strapped against his back, but his eyes never stopped roaming the decayed ferns and pitted brown trunks of the forest.

"Don't judge us all by Ander," Nathanial shouted from the front of their little caravan. "He's been eight years old since he was born."

Ander stuck out his tongue at his brother (there was no way he could see it around the bulk of the cart) and winked at Callista.

She grinned back. She'd never been close to her own sister (she'd been sent away for arcane schooling when she was ten, and they'd never developed much in common), but watching the Redbranches almost, maybe, stirred some wistfulness for what never was. There was something to be said for a companion who was blood-bound to put up with you.

"We'll stop here for the night," Aren said.

They'd reached a small glade, and when Callista looked up she could see the yellowing light of late afternoon between rents in the clouds. A crumbled stone wall lay just off the trail, surrounded by low hillocks thatched with brown grasses that might've marked the remains of even older ruins. Though it was nowhere near autumn, malformed leaves drifted down from the canopy in a slow fall of decay.

"Lets pitch the tents and start a fire, if we can manage one. It'll probably be our last for a while. Double watches, now that we're near Felwood. Wynda and Vorthaal, you take first. Luciel and Nathanial, you next, and I'll take last with Callista. Ander, you're off tonight."

Ander cheered.

Callista cringed inwardly, though her expression remained bland. She scraped a boot through a thick pile of crumbling leaves, looking for wood dry enough for kindling. So much for avoiding Aren. Manipulating the watch schedule was a rather low trick, for a paladin.

Her toe hit against something hard, dislodging a large chunk of matted leaves. She stooped down to pick up what she assumed was a long dead branch, but hissed and dropped it again once the leaves fell away.

Bones.

A long femur, picked clean of flesh but stained tea-colored by water seeping through dead leaves.

The misgiving that had been pooling beneath the surface of her thoughts for three days now (studiously ignored, because she'd made her choices, however impulsive, and looking back was always such a dangerous gamble), curdled suddenly into a hard knot of dread in her belly.

This was not a pleasant stroll in the forest. Especially not now, not in this company. Felwood wasn't a place Callista would lightly enter even alone. And alone, possibly, she'd have been allowed to pass without trouble (had been allowed once, what seemed like lifetimes ago but had been less than two years); the Shadow Council did not discourage mortals from travelling to Jaedenar, provided the correct kind of magic tainted their blood. There were still other dangers though. Mad wildlife and poisoned air and water and demons who served no masters but their own lust for violence. And with a party as drenched in the Holy Light as hers, there was no chance of passing unnoticed by the Council. They could only hope any watchers would find them too well-armed to be worth the effort of destroying.

She looked around at the seven of them, the slow cart burdened with supplies, and scowled. Highly doubtful.

Twisting Nether. She wasn't ready to bolt...quite...but perhaps it was time she started considering a contingency plan.

* * *

Hours later, Callista woke to a hand on her shoulder and Nathanial's low voice.

"It's your turn."

Callista groaned sleepily before sitting up in her bedroll and digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Did you see anything?"

Nathanial's face was a dark shadow against the tent opening. "No. It's raining again though."

"Of course it is." Now that he'd said it, she could hear the wet patter against the canvas. Feeling around in the dark for her cloak, she shrugged it on before crawling out into the night.

The fire had long ago gone out, though the smell of woodsmoke lingered. Fat drops of rain slid down through the forest canopy to burst against Callista's covered head and shoulders, adding a staccato counterpoint to the endless sigh of wind through the leaves.

It was very very dark. Nathanial picked his way over to the tent he shared with Ander as Callista strained her eyes against the blackness, stepping carefully towards the ruined wall that bordered their campsite and laying a hand on top of the largest fallen stone.

Nothing to see but shadows and the black trunks of trees, smeared into near invisibility by falling rain.

The stone was drenched. Wrinkling her nose, she shut one eye to preserve her night vision and ignited her palm with a hot yellow flame, scouring the top of the stone until all the water that pooled in its worn surface had hissed away.

The sudden heat boiled the water but barely warmed the rock. She hoisted herself onto it quickly, before the rain could wet it again, and settled herself cross-legged. This watch was likely to be unpleasant for a number of reasons. No need to marinate her rear as well.

Her felhunter, drawn by the flare of magic, loped over from the stand of trees she'd ordered it to lay in and placed its horned paws on the edge of the stone, butting hopefully at her hand.

She scratched the coarse fur under its jaw, listening carefully for the sound of anything approaching through the undergrowth. Not that she was worried about demons. Jhormug would sense them long before she did. Her ear was cocked in the direction of the tents.

A pungent smell pricked her nose, even over the earthy scent of wet loam, and she eyed her minion skeptically. Something like old blood mixed with damp fur and an acrid seared odor. "One day, I'm going to have to give you a bath. You're going to hate it."

Jhormug took no notice, merely twisting his head to gnaw at the rock where she'd burned it.

It wasn't long before the crackle of snapped twigs rose over the rain sounds. Jhormug stopped chewing at the stone and dropped to all fours, growling a warning.

The footsteps hesitated a moment before resuming. Callista half-turned back toward camp as Aren touched her lightly on the arm.

"Hey," he said. He didn't remove his hand, gently squeezing the back of her elbow.

"Hey," Callista replied. She didn't push his hand away but she stiffened a little in uncertainty, not sure, for once, exactly what she meant to say and annoyed that he should unbalance her at all that way. Twisting Nether, so she'd slept with him. Once. She'd slept with plenty of people once. Some of them she'd even been almost fond of, after a fashion. It didn't  _mean_  anything.

Jhormug growled again more loudly, sensing her agitation.

"Oh, go catch an imp," she muttered, glad for the interruption and the excuse to twitch away.

Aren rested his forearms against her stone, leaning over them to watch the felhunter warily. "I don't think your - Jhormug?" he corrected hesitantly. "Likes me."

Callista laughed. "He doesn't really like anything I won't let him eat. Including me, I think."

Though, like most demons, the felhunter bore an especial hatred for Light-wielders. Yet another reason this liaison was a bad idea.

She could hear the wry smile in his tone. "Ah. Well, as long as I'm in good company, then."

She quirked a lip, but made no reply. After a moment she looked away, watching the pillared shadows of the trees and listening to the mournful tapping of rain against the leaves.

Fabric rasped against rock, Aren shifting awkwardly. "Could you come down here? So we can...talk? Please?"

Knowing he couldn't see her, Callista made a face. She did not want to talk. What she wanted was - not for this never to have happened, exactly, not even for it never to happen again - but for the whole thing to have been different from the start. Somehow. This wasn't how she'd intended this to end up. Shirking the conversation could only make it worse, though.

She slid down from the rock, leaving one hand on it for balance, and turned to face him. "Aren. What do you want me to say?"

His voice, when he spoke, was low and earnest. "Say you'll marry me."

Her jaw dropped so hard she swore she heard the joint click, and she recoiled with an aggravated hiss. "What in the Twisting Nether and Great Dark Beyond is the matter with - "

He was laughing. So hard he pressed his palm against his mouth to muffle himself and not wake the others, shoulders shaking.

"Very funny," Callista said dryly, still a little annoyed. Mostly just relieved, though. Nether, what a nightmare.

"That's for leaving without waking me up." His tone was light, but with an undercurrent of sincerity. He sighed, suddenly serious, and hesitated a long moment before speaking again. "You've been avoiding me for days. Do you really regret what we did that much?"

He sounded...hurt. She winced. "Is that what you think?"

"Callista. You've barely looked me in the eye since Auberdine. What did you mean for me to think?"

Truthfully, she hadn't really considered that at all. She'd been so concerned he'd read too much into her actions - sleeping with him, and then staying on with the group, despite her vehement assertions that she wouldn't - that it hadn't occurred to her that she'd pushed his impressions so far in the other direction. She was so unused to taking people at their word. He'd never tried to edge her into any kind of commitment, but she'd assumed he meant to anyway. Maybe Wynda was right. Perhaps she really had spent too much time with demons, if she couldn't stop herself from applying liars' standards to even honorable people.

"Sorry," she said. "This isn't...how this usually goes."

"What, the part where you stay?"

_The part where I believe anything that you say._  "Something like that."

"Look," he said. "I'm not asking for promises. I just want to know if you think what happened was a mistake." He paused, and she could hear in his voice, more than see, the crooked smile that stole across his face. "Because I don't. In case you weren't sure."

Callista exhaled, half laugh, half sigh. She supposed whether this was a mistake depended entirely on your definition of the word; whether you leaned more toward the "accidental" or the "this will end poorly" side of the semantic fence. But either way, what was done was done, and sometimes it was best to let the future keep its own problems. And some things were better off unsaid.

Evading the question, she reached out a hand instead, laying it on his bicep and taking a step closer, tilting her head up invitingly.

To Aren's credit, he was much better at interpreting her touches than he often was her words. He kissed her, one hand rising to cup her jaw and the other settling against the small of her back, pulling her close against him. He smelled like woodsmoke, and when she parted her lips, catching his bottom one between them, he tasted like salt and rainwater.

She slipped a hand beneath the oiled fabric of his hood, tugging gently at the short hair at the nape of his neck and enjoying his sudden intake of breath, but after a moment she paused. "This is still a terrible idea," she murmured, close enough to feel his quickened breath against her mouth.

"I know," he said.

She laughed, softly but not unkindly. And that was the trouble, really. If he hadn't known this was wrong - he was her commanding officer, technically, and even if he hadn't been, a paladin ought to have found her casual fel magic repellant anyway - she wouldn't have found this half so interesting.

With a small mental shrug - at least she'd tried, which was more than she'd wanted to do - she pressed her mouth back to his. One hand dipped to his belt, pushing up the soft fabric of his shirt until she could lay her rain-chilled fingers against the hot skin beneath.

He gasped, burying his face against her neck and sliding a hand over hers, warming her fingers between his palm and the heat of his belly.

"I thought you were going to leave," he said. He'd grown the beginnings of a beard since they'd left Auberdine, and his cheek rasped pleasantly against her neck as he spoke.

"I  _was_  going to leave," she said, not paying particular attention to her words but breathing deliberately against his ear.

She bit gently at it and his grip tightened as he kissed her neck. "Why didn't you?"

Callista didn't care much for this line of questioning. She grasped the hand he'd been holding against hers lightly by the wrist and pushed his palm against her breast. "Does it matter?"

"Yes." He paused, drawing back from her slightly so he could look her in the eyes. His hood had slipped, and rain smoothed chunks of his sleep-mussed hair to his forehead and beaded the stubble of his new beard, the wet glimmer visible even in the dark.

Callista hesitated, unsure whether to lie, or to tell the truth - or even what would be which, this time. Too many reasons, twisted and blended together like drops of dye in water, and no one of them enough. She'd still meant to leave, after she crept out of his room that night. But then there'd been Wynda, that frustrating, too-honest conversation when she'd tried to say the cruel, useful thing, and couldn't…

She'd have found out what happened to them all, one way or another. Even if - especially if - they never came back from Kalimdor. Despite their petty rivalries, the warlocks of Stormwind talked, and one day, through the strange, illicit, half-reliable channels that brought word from Orgrimmar and Jaedenar, from Shattrath City and the Black Citadel, she'd have heard it whispered in the back of The Slaughtered Lamb. An Argent Dawn company, vanished in Felwood, and did you hear what truly became of them?

She hadn't liked the thought, and hadn't been able to banish it.

She smiled coyly at him. "Come here and I'll show you." It wasn't more than half a lie - the sex had helped. It had been an embarrassingly long time, after all. First that dreadsteed debacle; then that unsettling, rather unwisely drunk, encounter with Nerothos on the dock (she and Tun had stayed in Booty Bay for another week afterward, but he'd upset her equanimity too much for her to truly enjoy herself); then she'd been so occupied yanking imps out of nobles' bathhouses...

Aren laughed, and kissed her, slowly. This time, he didn't speak again for some while.


	13. Felwood

Despite Callista's dire mutterings, it wasn't demons that caused their first obstacle.

Aren scratched absently at his neck, itchy with sweat and dirt, as he surveyed their morning's work. The sight was disheartening. A dead oak of truly prodigious size lay across the trail, still bristling with twisted branches despite their hours of labor. It was a hoary old thing, scaled with lichen and shelf-like fungus, blocking the overgrown path they followed as thoroughly as if it had been cut and wedged there. Dried leaves hissed mockingly at him as Nathanial and Wynda hacked at its limbs, trying to bare its weathered trunk.

To the left, the ground tumbled down a short ledge, matted with weeds and ill-formed brambles, to a shallow creek. A sickly green mist rose from it, and clotted chunks of something unidentifiable bobbed along its surface. Aren wasn't sure he'd have dared the water even if they hadn't been burdened with the cart.

To the right, the forest pressed in close. What ground wasn't creeping with thorns and noxious mushrooms was a knobbly maze of tree roots. When it fell, the oak had torn up a massive plug of earth, and it still reared overhead like a wood-laced rampart three times Aren's height.

He grimaced. This trail they followed had been largely abandoned once the forest fell to corruption. He knew it was only by the grace of the Light that they hadn't found more trouble, but that didn't stop him from chafing.

He resisted the urge to pace after a few steps, boots sinking through the thin crust of earth into mud still black and sticky beneath. The soaking downpour had finally tapered off around daybreak, but the sky remained grey and lowering. At least the clean rain smell had scoured away the worst of Felwood's sour odor. And despite the damp weather, Aren was still glad to be off the ship. He'd missed this kind of journey: travelling on his own feet, surrendering to wholesome exhaustion at night instead of lying awake and devising new lines for same old litany of concerns. He still had plenty of fodder for doubt, of course, but at least not all of it was unpleasant.

He glanced at Callista where she sat on a moss-furred rock near the creek, turning what looked like a pair of small stones over and over methodically in her fingers.

"What are those?" he asked, walking closer to be heard over the rhythmic  _thwock_  of the axes.

She stopped toying with the stones at his approach. The rain had left a humid, stifling heat behind, and she'd unfastened the front of her robes against it, letting the red and black felweave hang open over her tunic and buff-colored leggings. Aren couldn't help but notice that her neckline had fallen slightly askew, revealing a lighter crescent of untanned skin above the smooth curve of her breast. Memories of the night before raised a pleasant warmth in his belly and he tore his gaze away with effort, choosing the worn pebble she held up for his inspection as a safer focus.

He took it from her, less out of real interest and more as an excuse to grasp lightly at her fingers. The pebble was a small, irregular, round thing; so badly scuffed he barely tell its original color had been an amethyst-like purple.

"It's a soul shard," she explained to his puzzled face.

Aren was familiar with the shards, but all the others he'd seen her use had been jagged brilliant crystals. His gaze fell on the coarse chunk of river sandstone still in her other hand - she'd been using it to grind down the shard's edges. " _Why_?" he asked, bemused.

She laughed. "Don't worry about it."

He drew his brows together, still curious, but knew better than to press the issue. Callista rarely answered a question she didn't want to, though often her evasion was so skillful he didn't notice until much later. Instead, he dropped the soul shard back into her palm and then reached out, brushing away a mouldering piece of leaf that had landed on her hair.

Despite all the things that worried him - her fel magic, how she'd come to be in his company, her odd reticences - he hadn't wanted a woman this much since the one he thought he'd marry. And that had been years ago, though not so long that he'd stopped looking back. He'd been fresh from the wrack of Lordaeron, then. Battered and bone-weary, but determined not to let the Scourge blight the rest of his life the way it had its first half. With all the hopefulness of youth and the newly devout, he'd painted a thin lacquer of normalcy over his broken places and called himself whole. He'd truly believed he could fold away the past with his Stratholme tabard; still imagined himself capable of living the slow domestic life he feared he might never stop wanting, even now.

His betrothal had failed for a number of reasons. Most of them his fault. He'd tried so hard to forget - cast away those terrible months of fear and helplessness and striking down friends grown hollow and ravenous with undeath - but the war he'd fled was more than memory.

He'd lost his head for trivialities, he'd found. Little things - birthdays, names of acquaintances, whose turn it was to wash up after dinner - no longer had a hold on him, slipping like dust through the cracks in his thoughts. No one would die because of them, after all. No cities would fall. He'd re-learned too late that a typical life is almost entirely "trivialities." Elle had left, by then.

Callista reminded him a little of her, in some ways. Elle had been an officer in the Stormwind guard and did not suffer fools. There was a way of talking she had... both women could inject a casual suggestion with such iron that even the laziest recruit (or the most recalcitrant demon) would straighten up and take notice. Elle had been gentler, though. Much of her arrogance was an accessory she donned with her armor, and the first time he'd undressed her, she'd been almost shy. She'd stood in the warm strip of afternoon light that shone through the curtains with her hands crossed demurely over her breasts until he'd drawn them away, taking her tenderly in his arms.

If Callista's self-possession had ever begun as a facade, it had sunk beneath her skin long before he met her. She carried herself with the same lazy confidence whether she was clothed or not, and whispered heated suggestions in the same compelling tone with which she laid down her arguments. It was something he found exasperating in conversation, the trick she had of wielding certainty like a switchblade, but it was considerably more fun in bed.

He stood beside her, half watching Nathanial and Wynda hauling cut branches from the great fallen tree, half watching the easy motion of her fingers as she resumed scraping at her shard.

"We camp here tonight, I think," Vorthaal said. He flopped down across from them on a raised hillock of limp weeds, face flushed an even deeper shade of blue from his recent turn at chopping.

Callista casually made to shift away from Aren on the stone, opening a less intimate distance between them, but he touched the back of her arm reassuringly to stop her. Perhaps their relationship - whatever it was - wasn't the most traditional possible course, but he wasn't ashamed of it. Besides, the Light abhorred deception. And anyway, he'd eat his pauldrons if Wynda, at least, hadn't figured out what they were about.

She glanced up at him with an arch look -  _it's your fraternization tribunal_ , it said quite clearly - but didn't pull away from his hand. "I still think you should let me burn it," she said.

He shook his head. "The smoke would be visible from here to Astranaar."

"At least it would be quick," she pointed out. "And quiet."

If Vorthaal had noticed their silent exchange, he made no comment. Instead, he scratched the bony ridge of his nose, looking up at the still, sickly forest canopy contemplatively. Occasionally an oily droplet of moisture condensed among the leaves, plopping to the ground with a wet splat. "No wind. The smoke would be visible for some time. And there is something else, yes? Those creatures…" He eyed Callista's felhound, nosing its scaled snout into the litter of rotting leaves nearby. "They sense magic. And burning through a trunk that size would be no small task."

Callista sighed, laying the chunk of sandstone and the soul shard down in her lap. "I know. Still, I don't like this. We've been here too long."

Vorthaal grunted an agreement, took a swig of water from his canteen and made a face. "Bah. Warm as bathwater."

Callista cocked her head, eyeing the offending item. After an odd little pause she smiled, crooking her fingers at him. "Give it here, then."

Vorthaal regarded her with a puzzled, gauging look, briefly hesitating before his expression brightened into a curious smile of his own and he tossed her the canteen.

She caught it one-handed by its leather strap. Her other hand cupped the bottom of the container, and a lacy filigree of frost bloomed from her fingertips, layering the metal with ice. She tossed the now-chilled canteen back to Vorthaal. "I won't tell you how many times I froze my hand to the table as a student," she said wryly. "Fire always suited me better."

"My thanks," Vorthaal said. He took a long drink of water, then pressed the cold metal to the side of his head. "And how old were you when you decided that fire wasn't enough?" There was no judgment in his tone, only genuine curiosity.

Callista laughed. "I was fifteen when I bound my first demon. Though finding new ways to incinerate things had little to do with it. Most of my magic is only arcane even now."

"I know," Vorthaal said amiably. "Otherwise I would not have drunk the water." He shook his head. "So young, to make such choices."

"Why  _did_  you do it?" Aren asked. He'd wondered for some time now why a woman with as many advantages as Callista had begun to dabble in fel magic. He'd never quite found a way to broach the topic, though. It amazed him, still, that she'd apparently chosen him, and he wasn't yet convinced that the wrong word wouldn't reveal him for the naive fool he sometimes suspected he was, shatter their fragile intimacy like new ice on a pond.

She shrugged, looking at him with the ghost of a smile. A few strands of fair hair had escaped her knot, clinging to her neck with humidity. "I was young and reckless. Or young and pragmatic. Either way, I never thought I'd get caught."

"But  _why_ ," he insisted, determined to get an actual answer for once.

She paused for just a sliver of a heartbeat, pleasant expression flickering.

Aren exhaled softly through his nose, not quite a sigh. He'd noticed that hesitation in her before. A pause coupled with a swift, almost imperceptible piercing look, as though she were trying to work out how he might react to what she was about to say. She kept things from him, he knew. He found it maddening; not the omissions themselves, so much as the air she often had when she did it, as though she were shielding him from some knowledge she didn't trust he could handle.

There were scars on her skin, ragged marks like claws above her collarbone, and she wouldn't tell him where they came from.

"Do you know why warlocks bind demons?" she asked finally, switching her gaze to Vorthaal to include him.

The draenei settled his tail more comfortably among the high grass and then shrugged, watching her intently.

"They're useful servants," Aren hazarded.

"Sometimes," Callista agreed. "More often, they're horrible little balls of malice and dubious loyalty. And I can't exactly send my succubus out for groceries in Stormwind City."

He supposed that was true enough. Aren had never thought much about what Callista actually did with her demons. He was still coming to grips with the idea that she had them at all. "Why bother, then?"

She leaned back a little on her hands so she could view him and Vorthaal at once more easily. To his surprise, she didn't try to dodge the question, answering with a disarming one-shouldered shrug. "For most warlocks, the demon's actual services are a side benefit. What really matters is that the bond itself holds power. A lot of it, actually. Enough that not all demons enter their servitude unwillingly, though you'll want to be careful with that."

Aren frowned. "So it was about power."

She tugged her lips into a smile. "More or less. Why play from a position of disadvantage, if you have the choice? In a contest between two equally skilled arcanists, the one with the demon will always win."

Not for the first time, Aren wondered if she really meant everything that she said. "But most mages do  _not_  have demons," he protested. "Or fel magic."

She laughed. "You be surprised how many "mages" dabble."

"I would not," Vorthaal said, unexpectedly. He'd smudged a mark through the frost that rimed his canteen, and now he rubbed the cold pensively between the pads of his fingers as he spoke. "The lines between arcane categories are not nearly as clear as your Academy likes to advertise."

Callista's gaze sharpened thoughtfully on his face. "Is that why I don't offend you more?"

"No." He studied her for a moment, eyes glowing like clear white stars among the shadows of the trees. "You take an awful risk of corruption, but you know this, yes? You wield a terrible power, but it wears an ugly face." He paused. "There are many terrible powers in the world. Many more beautiful, but still a danger to the soul. I remember Argus. It was not warlocks that brought my people to ruin."

Callista, for once, had no retort. Instead she only watched him, the glib amusement that had played at the corners of her mouth fading into a look of intense interest.

"I do not condone consorting with demons. But the Naaru teach us that all things can be turned to the good. Perhaps even this. You do not seem evil to me, and for now that is enough."

She regarded the draenei with silent reflectiveness for another long moment.

Aren's fingers drifted to the back of her arm, stroking her lightly above the elbow, but he let the quiet linger. The little creek murmured restlessly behind them, a gentler counterpoint to the sharp axe blows echoing through the forest. Pale mist rose in ghostly ribbons from the trees.

Finally, some wordless accord seemed to settle between them. Callista shook her head, features slipping back into their usual faintly-amused expression. "That's the nicest thing a paladin has ever said to me," she said, slanting a look at Aren.

Vorthaal chuckled. "I very much doubt that that is true."

Aren only smiled, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

* * *

Callista had never been fond of physical labor.

The impact juddered through her arms as she swung the axe into a branch, hacking a thick wedge out of the top. She'd already shrugged off her heavy outer robes, but sweat still trickled down the nape of her neck, moistening her collar. Ugh. What was the point of having demonic servants if you needed to chop through your own trees? Normally, this was the sort of task she'd set her voidwalker to (or even Azlia, though the succubus hated this kind of work as much as she did), but Jhormug was too useful a sentry to dismiss.

She could feel the demon at the edge of her thoughts, restless and hungry. The felhunter sensed nothing, but if this wasn't the prelude to some sort of ambush, then Callista was the Grand Crusader. This fallen tree was much too convenient, and she wasn't as certain as the paladins that this part of Felwood was wholly deserted.

Dropping her axe, she leaned all her weight on the branch she'd gouged, pushing until it snapped with a dry crack.

At least they were making progress. She put the ball of her thumb to her mouth and bit out a splinter, surveying the massive shaggy trunk. Only a few more branches, and they'd have cleared enough to try lifting the cart over it. She glanced at her own shadow, stretched long in the fitful afternoon light that shone through the hole in the canopy. Not before nightfall, though. The thought of camping here unsettled her.

She picked up the axe near its head, scraping the blade along the base of a smaller branch before tearing it free in a shower of dead leaves. Her hands would be blistered before the day was out. She inspected a smooth red patch of soreness on her palm and scowled.

"When I made that face, Wynda told me blisters were good for the soul," Ander said, teasing. He sat sprawled on the damp leaves of the path with his canteen in one hand and his poleaxe on the ground within easy reach, black curls still plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"And so they are," Wynda said, stooping to grab the end of one of the branches Callista had severed. She dragged it, rustling, to the pile of firewood and heaved it on top. "Hard hands, soft heart, I always say!"

Callista wrinkled her nose. "Really? You always say that? Outside of the Cathedral of Light? And no one's polymorphed you into a toad yet?"

"It's the best proof I have for the Light protecting its own," Ander said, nodding seriously.

Wynda chuckled. "Aye, go on and laugh, lazy heathens. If sour faces could split wood, you'd both be prize lumberjacks. But they can't, so best get cracking!"

Callista softened her face into its most put-upon expression, lifted the axe, and chopped into another branch with satiric bonelessness.

"Paladins are a cruel lot," Ander said. "Look how they've turned this poor woman's arms into jelly." He gazed at her with limpid earnestness. "Run away with me, and we'll leave this foul tree behind forever. Toss the axe, bring your succubus."

Glancing back at him to make a retort, she instead caught sight of Aren, standing a little behind him assembling their tents. He shook his head with a small smile and turned his eyes briefly up to the heavens.

Callista returned his eyeroll and laughed.

Ander leaned on his elbows, cheerfully heedless of the mud, and tilted his head back to look at Aren. "When a woman laughs at you, it means she  _will_  run away with you, right?"

Aren grinned. Between the expression and the blond layer of stubble on his jaw, he looked almost roguish, if that was a word you could properly apply to a man of the Light. "You'd better hope not. Where would you keep them all?"

His gaze brushed across Callista again, and its warmth sent a not unpleasant shiver through her. Desire she was used to, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at her that way. There was a reason most of her affairs ended at sun-up. Her life (like most warlocks', she suspected), didn't lend itself to consistency, all blurred lines and grey crookedness where most people preferred black and white and sharp edges. Few men could exist comfortably in that kind of tangled landscape; fewer still would want to try. If she were honest, she had little enough reason to believe that Aren was one of them, other than the fact he'd seen her conjure some green fire and still went to bed with her. But even so...

In a blink, her mind shuffled tentatively through a series of images, the way one might probe an old scar with the fingertips to see if it's still there. Dinner with Tun and Nissa at the Gilded Rose, Aren's arm warm around her shoulders...sitting in her study, poring over some old tome, as he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck...introducing him to Azlia, warning him to deflect the succubus's sweetly venomous contempt...Aren patiently waiting in Stormwind, keeping the hearthfire burning as she traipsed off to The Slaughtered Lamb, or Jaedenar, or some other accursed place he could never follow her…

Dissonance won, and the fantasy ended in a discordant shatter so sharp she swore she felt it in her teeth.

She shook her head disgustedly and swung the axe for earnest this time, actually taking pleasure in the solid bite of the blade striking wood.

It wasn't that she never wondered if having a real partner might not be  _nice_. Unfortunately, "nice" often clashed so miserably with all the other qualities in her life. Her conscience needled her uncomfortably. Twisting Nether, what was she doing here?

Absorbed in her musing and the numbing labor of wood cutting, she almost missed the sudden prickle of interest from her felhunter.

She froze, narrowing her eyes and letting the axe dangle. Was it a threat? Or had the demon simply found some kind of tainted animal to chase after?

She turned to Aren, but before she could speak Jhormug's howl split the air, almost eclipsing Luciel's shout from her perch in the branches above them - "Felguards! From the west and south!"

Callista dropped the axe and drew a harsh breath through her teeth, snatching her robes from the branch she'd draped them over and wriggling into them.

"Rally to me!" Aren cried. He pulled on his heavy plate gloves, flexing the fingers and loosening his sword in its scabbard. "Get the axes out of the way."

Ander scrambled to his feet, grabbing his poleaxe, as Wynda threw down an armful of brush and grimly lifted her hammer. Vorthaal and Nathanial jogged around the side of the cart, weapons at ready. They'd tied their horse up just off the trail, and it gave a muffled whinny into its feedbag, foot stamping in alarm.

"How many?" Vorthaal asked. His voice was calm, but his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the haft of his crystalline warhammer.

Callista nudged the axe back against the fallen trunk with the side of her foot, then joined the rough half-circle they'd formed in the center of the path. She reached out with her magic as another unearthly howl floated through the trees. "Fourteen!" she hissed. "Six down the path, the rest in the woods. They're much too close!"

The warning was hardly necessary. The snap of branches and clank of heavy armor was already audible even to Callista's human ears.

Aren breathed a soft plea to the Light. "Hold," he said quietly.

Guttural voices rumbled in demonic, not quite clear enough to interpret. Jhormug howled again, and she urged him away from them, further into the dense undergrowth. If the ones in the woods chased him far enough, maybe they'd have a chance.

Fear knotted her gut, and she reached into her pocket, fingering the soul shard she'd ground smooth. How had they been caught so flat-footed? Jhormug could track a single imp for miles. And whatever her personal shortcomings, Luciel was a scout with centuries of experience. This shouldn't have been possible.

Possible or not, six felguards loped around the bend in the path. They were clad identically in spiked black plate that covered half the chest and one arm, wielding an assortment of cruel-looking serrated swords. All but one raised his weapon and charged at the sight of them. The last lingered back, raising a twisted horn to his mouth and blowing a long strident note.

The horn blast died in a ragged squawk. Luciel's round glaive whistled through the air, severing the horn and the demon's hand in a dark spray of blood. He bellowed in rage and pain, falling back and clutching at the stump of his arm.

His companions didn't slow.

Aware of her friends bracing themselves around her, Callista thrust out her will and felt the deep exhilarating throb of power almost instantly, the siren rush of arcane energy coursing through her blood. Everything seemed slower, sharper, the venomous red of the giant fungi that lined the path as keen as the felguards' blades, and it was no surprise at all that races had been brought to ruin this way.

She gestured and a wall of green flame roared across the trail, snapping hungrily at the overhanging branches.

The lead felguard, unable to halt in time, careened through the fire with an agonized howl. The cursed flame clung to him like he'd been doused in oil, streaming from his limbs in green pennants as he writhed in the mud, trying ineffectually to smother the flames.

The other demons smashed through the foliage on either side of the path, and she heard a grinding crunch as one collided with Aren's shield. The felguard had lost his momentum, though, and Aren shoved him backward, striking viciously with his sword.

The felguard threw up an arm, catching the blade on a spiked bracer with a shriek of metal, and snarled. He raised a jagged blade in his other hand, but before he could retaliate, Luciel's glaive whistled down from the trees, shredding his throat on its bloody arc back to the elf's hand. The felguard stumbled to one knee, dark blood washing the front of his chest, but did not lose hold of his weapon. He looked up at Aren and spat some curse that came out a liquid gurgle as the paladin's sword thrust through the ruin of his neck and twisted.

Smoke burned Callista's nose, acrid with wet leaves. Felfire coursed around her hand in green ribbons, but she hesitated, frustrated, as Wynda's stocky form barrelled through her line of sight again. She swore. Callista had fought her way out of a number of scrapes, but she wasn't really a warmage, and had little experience in open skirmishes with other mortals. The hard part of battle magic, it turned out, wasn't destroying your enemies; it was leaving your allies alive and un-singed while you did it.

Aggravated, she summoned oily ropes of shadow that burst from the ground under a felguard's boot. They tangled his feet mid-lunge, wrenching a satisfying wet crunch from his jaw as he slammed into the mud.

He didn't get a chance to rise. Vorthaal's hammer glimmered gem-like through the haze as he brought it down on the felguard's head in a crushing blow. He hefted the massive weapon again as if it weighed nothing, stalking towards the pair of demons cornered by Wynda and the two Redbranches.

Callista had just allowed herself a brief flicker of optimism when she heard Jhormug's earsplitting howl. Agonized this time, not warning, and the pathetic noise cut off abruptly as she felt the stinging mental blow of her connection to the felhound severing.

She swore again, coughing in the thickening smoke. "The others - the rest are coming back!" she shouted.

"Cut these down,  _now_!" Aren roared.

Callista edged closer to where the others had penned the two remaining felguards, grabbing a soul shard from her pouch and rolling it between her fingers. Her fire had died to emerald coals amid the bracken, tinged with the orange of mundane flame at its edges, but she let what was left of it burn. They would shortly be outnumbered, and the cover of the smoke might be useful.

She was scanning the foliage across the creek, waiting for the first felguard to crash down its bank, when a musical cry broke her focus.

Luciel tumbled from the trees overhead in a welter of sticks and dying leaves. The tangled web of the canopy broke her fall, but not well enough. She landed with a sickening splash in the low water of the creek, leg bent unnaturally beneath her body. One edge of a double-headed throwing axe protruded grotesquely from her thigh, and blood welled from the wound to float downstream in tattered streamers. Despite the bone-snapping impact, she struggled grimly to rise.

"Vorthaal, with me!" Aren yelled.

The draenei broke away at his command, lips peeled back from his teeth in rage. The two paladins closed on their injured comrade, but too slowly.

A fresh party of demons burst from the trees on the other side of the creek. They leapt down the bank and bulled through the thigh-deep water without pause, black mud boiling up where they stepped. One of the felguards reached down and seized Luciel by the arm, yanking her viciously upwards to her knees. She snarled something in Darnassian, thrashing the green-tinged water like an eel, but couldn't break the demon's grip.

Their leader, an enormous winged doomguard, appeared last. He thrust aside the bushes that lined the creek, taking two strides forward through the muddy shallows and bellowing out (disorientingly, in Common), "Halt!"

The weapon-clash sounds of the skirmish died as the last two felguards on Callista's side of the water disengaged.

For a moment, silence fell uncannily on her ears, broken only by the sad murmur of the creek and the rough pants of the former combatants.

"Throw down your weapons, mortals, or I gut her." The doomguard's voice was a harsh rumble, thick with the accent of the Legion, but still intelligible.

Callista narrowed her eyes. Despite the misgiving curdling in her gut, she allowed the half-formed shadowbolt in her hand to dissipate, moving forward to stand next to Aren at the water's edge. Twisting Nether, what was this new treachery?

A bandolier of throwing axes hung across the doomguard's armored chest, one loop empty. He thumbed a claw menacingly along the handle of another as he waited. That wasn't what caught her attention, though. Her eyes focused, incongruously, on the bright orange sigil blazoned on his chestpiece beneath the bandolier. A twisted hand on a deep purple field. The purple was right, but that was  _not_  the sign of the Shadow Council. Her scowl deepened. She was unaware of any other Legion offshoots in Felwood. What was happening here?

At her side, Aren's pauldrons heaved with his breaths. He was so angry he was almost vibrating, but when he spoke she was proud of the evenness in his tone. "Let her go."

"I will not. Surrender, or you all die."

So, the Burning Legion offered terms now. Somehow, Callista doubted this had anything to do with the rules of honorable combat. But whatever game they'd stumbled into, she had no more interest in playing it fairly than those fiends standing in the river. Her friends were alarmingly outnumbered, but perhaps a little arrogance and invention might serve where swords and felfire failed.

She laid a hand on Aren's arm, hard enough that he'd feel the impact of it through the steel, and stepped forward. Hopefully her companions would have the sense not to interrupt. Arranging her face into her most imperious sneer, she responded to the doomguard's Common with Eredun, voice dark with barely restrained anger. "Have you lost your  _mind_?"

The doomguard's thick features didn't twitch, but one of the felguards snapped his head around to look at her with a quiet grunt.

"No closer, human," the doomguard said.

She stopped, but drew on her magic again, feeling the febrile bleed of power into the air and knowing the demons would sense it as well. It was as much a threat as drawing a sword, the oppressive throb of energy so thick she could almost taste it, a metallic burn on the tongue. The felguards shifted warily, seeking better footing against the lazy pull of the current. The one holding Luciel bared his fangs at Callista and gave the night elf a jerk, drawing a pained hiss. Good. This would only work if they took her seriously. "You have no idea what you've interrupted, do you? Tell me. Does Lord Banehollow know you're blundering around out here?"

_That_ got the doomguard's attention. After a fashion. The big demon seemed curiously distracted, eyes drifting somewhere to the left of her head until she actually spoke. But after a few puzzling heartbeats, her words registered and he let out a low growl at the name. "Insolent little worm. My master sent us here by Banehollow's request. Whom do  _you_ serve? Why are you here?"

His stubby wings spread aggressively, but the fact he'd asked questions at all showed uncertainty. Promising. Callista renewed her sneer. "Don't be a fool, if you can help it. Telling you that is more than both our hides are worth. I answer only to the Council."

The doomguard growled again. His large nostrils flared, and for a moment he simply pierced her with his stare, as though he could rip the truth from her merely by glaring. Doomguards were unnerving enough simply by nature of what they were, but his look would have been more intimidating if he'd kept a more controlled expression. He couldn't seem to suppress the sudden wander of his eyes or upward tug of his lip over his fangs, as though unable to divide his face from the churn of his own thoughts.

Clearly, this was not one of the Legion's best and brightest. Callista returned the doomguard's gaze with placid contempt, feeling a tentative prick of triumph at his confusion. This creature had no idea what to do with her. Maybe she could still salvage this.

Then the demon's eyes slid sideways, taking in Aren, Vorthaal and all the rest, and he scowled and snorted, unconvinced. "You say you serve the Legion. Then why do you travel with elves and Light-humpers?"

Callista narrowed her eyes, cold fingers of unease clutching at her. "I told you once why I can't answer that. Did I stutter?"

The doomguard snarled, face shifting through another of those odd sequences of expression, but then he smiled slowly. It was an unpleasant look, bristling with far too many sharp teeth. "I do not think I believe you, little mortal. Seize them!"

Well, she'd tried.

She skipped backwards, sliding on earth already churned to black mud, as the felguards leapt. Her friends hadn't understood the conversation, but its conclusion was obvious enough. They met the demons' charge at the water's edge with a punishing crash of metal.

One of the felguards slipped, footing spoiled by the muck, and Vorthaal shattered his temple with a crushing warhammer blow. The advantage was short-lived, though. There were simply too many.

A felguard took a wild swing at her with his sword and Callista skidded back again with a snarl. Shadows twisted around her hands and her spell hit him full in the side of his face, drawing a strangled roar as oily corrosion obliterated his eye and part of his jaw. It took more than that to destroy a demon, though. He'd retained his grip on his weapon, somehow, and managed one lurching step towards her before Wynda drove into him with her armored shoulder and knocked him back.

Seizing the brief respite, Callista grabbed a soul shard from her pouch and focused a predatory glare on the doomguard. He stood with the water lapping around his hooves behind Luciel's crumpled form, watching the fray with dull indifference. Strangely passive, for a demon. The creature had not overly impressed her with his intelligence. This would be easy.

She'd backed almost to where they'd left their cart in the center of the path, and she ducked against it now, hoping to remain unharried during her spell. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed the shard in her palm and lashed out at the doomguard with the full brunt of her will.

He staggered and slipped in the murky water, dazed by the sudden mental blow. Callista drew a measured breath, bracing herself for the frenzied explosion of resistance...that didn't come. The ease with which he yielded caused her a deep twinge of suspicion, but halfway through a binding spell was no time for second thoughts. In another moment, it wouldn't matter anyway.

The soul shard dissolved in her hand, sublimating in a rush of hot energy and cinching invisible chains tighter around the doomguard's mind. She should have been able to feel him by now, the familiar barrage of foul outrage and desperation before the final shackle closed, but instead he was blank, an empty cipher, nothing but -

_Void._

She stumbled against the side of the cart, air ripped from her lungs in a choked gasp. Darkness seared her vision until there was nothing but the vast black, ancient and eyeless but not empty,  _no,_ the darkness  _writhed_  -

She thrashed with her will, struggling futilely to turn her mind's eye from the vision, and then there was  _pain_  - shattering, annihilating, crushing the world to a small blind point of agony - as the binding spell twisted in her grip and she tasted the thick metallic warmth of her own blood. Chains of fire across her mind, scalding, acid on the raw wound of her will, but her thoughts seized on them anyway in desperate recoil from that suppurating void, and she realized with a strangled sob that the chains were hers. The binding had turned,  _he was not what she thought_  - she clawed at the Nether with all of her strength and the wildness of panic, and the answering torrent of magic was not exhilarating this time but terrible, almost as agonizing as the chains (but not the darkness, no, never that), and the spell shattered in a scorching whipcrack of power.

She thought she must have screamed. Her vision returned in a mad tumble of images - dead leaves plastered into the mud, a demon's spiked iron boot, a dirt-caked wooden wagon wheel - and she found herself on her hands and knees beside the cart, breathing in strangled gasps and spitting out mouthfuls of her own blood.

Her nose was bleeding. She put a hand to it dazedly and stared at the red dripping from her fingers. Twisting Nether. That…he... Her limbs shook and she leaned against the sturdy wood of the cart wheel, trying to gather her shattered thoughts. The doomguard... _no_. She did not know what he was, but he wasn't just that. She'd failed bindings before, knew how it felt, and if she'd tried to grab hold of Kil'jaeden himself she didn't believe she'd see... _that_. She flinched at the memory, drew a shuddering breath. It had almost killed her. The thought drifted across her mind with flat, unprocessed composure. It had seized her, and it had almost...

Her head ached fiercely. The pain was heavy, almost cloying, smearing the shouts and sword clashes like oils, meaningless noise. She didn't know how long she might have knelt there - breathing numbly through her mouth, watching the slowing red patter of her blood on the fallen leaves - but a sudden close cry jolted her.

"I yield!"

Dread pierced her muddled fog. She sat up, saw Nathanial throw his twin swords to the ground, and a sickening tide of horror crashed over her. There was a battle. Yes. She'd abandoned it.

Her gaze jerked across the path, looking for the others. Ander hung limply between two felguards, head lolling back with one of the demons' blades dimpling the skin beneath his jaw.

"I yield," Nathanial said again with ragged despair, holding up his empty hands. "Please, don't hurt him."

Luciel lay crumpled where the felguards had dragged her, half-in and half-out of the greasy water. A flash of silver caught her eye, and her stomach dropped. Aren. He was still standing at least, but blood caked the left side of his face. He stumbled as one of his captors gave his back a rough shove.

It was over.

"Bind his hands," the doomguard commanded.

There was no sign of Vorthaal or Wynda. Had they run? She hoped so.

They'd come for her, next. She fumbled in her pocket, hands clumsy and barely her own. A blistering knife of panic, then her fingers brushed something small and hard, and she clenched it numbly, turning away from the sight of the felguards shoving Nathanial to his knees and yanking his wrists behind him.

A soul shard - barely the size of her thumbnail, the one whose edges she'd worried down with a rough stone. Praying to whatever powers would listen that no one was watching, she fumbled it into her mouth and held it under her tongue.

She worked it to the back of her throat, but fear dried her mouth. If only, she thought, fighting back a wild laugh, she'd bothered to try this before she'd spit out all that blood.

"Get the last one," a demon snarled.

Plaguing hells. The hard stone tore at her throat, but she urged her muscles to work despite the blunt pain and the frantic instinct to choke it up. She swallowed it amid a hot rush of relief just as a large clawed hand closed on the collar of her robes.

It yanked her back away from the cart as another pair of hands dug into her elbows, wrenching them behind her. She let out a harsh hiss in protest.

"No tricks, warlock."

Her cheek exploded in pain as he cuffed her, a sharp backhanded strike. Her head rocked to the side, and she tasted blood again as her teeth cut the inside of her mouth. Dazed from the blow and her failed spell, she didn't struggle as cold iron weighted her wrists, trapping her hands against her back, and she was dragged to her feet.

"Walk," her captor snarled, and so she did.

Her feet seemed to float, caught in a surreal dream. The clouds had broken, finally, and dazzling bars of sunlight striped the path, piercing her throbbing head like darts. Nathanial stumbled before her with his head down. She tasted metal again, licked her lip and realized her nose was still oozing blood. Had the felguard hit her so hard? Or had it simply never stopped bleeding?

It didn't really matter.

The felguard wrenched her arm again, propelling her off the path into the trees. He half-dragged her as she stumbled over woody mushroom stems and brambles, and then a black hole yawned before her.

She flinched back from it - not that hellish shadow, not ever again - but the felguard growled and hauled her after him into the dark.

She tripped on the first crumbling dirt step, and her panic slowly ebbed as she was prodded downwards. The air was noisome with damp and earth and rot. A tunnel? No wonder they'd never noticed the demons' approach.

She blinked, suddenly blind as the door thudded shut above them.

"This one's a warlock. Put her under," a felguard said.

Before she could react, head still cottony with pain, a foul-smelling cloth smothered her nose and mouth and darkness swallowed her.


	14. Jaedenar

She did not know how long they traveled. Time passed in fitful patches, broken by dark oblivion. One of the felguards had slung her across his shoulders like a large limp sack, and, in the brief moments of lucidity before they drugged her again, his claws dug painfully into her leg and each long step jarred her aching head.

They let her almost wake from time to time, seated on the damp stone floor of the tunnel as she groggily sipped at the water they gave her. She did not know where the others were. When she gained enough consciousness to look up too often from the dirty canteen, the rank-smelling cloth pressed against her nose again and she knew nothing.

Once, she half-roused, head jouncing against the felguard's spiked pauldron, and saw the serene face of a night elf gazing down at her. Confused, temples throbbing with pain, she managed half a slurred syllable before she realized the face belonged to a statue. The stone woman stood on a plinth in the basin of a cracked fountain shaped like the crescent moon. Runes scrawled in low demonic marred the once fine marble, but the elf - Elune? - stared down beatifically at them all anyway.

_The Shadow Hold_. The thought swam into Callista's head like one of the luminescent fish she'd seen near Booty Bay, bright and connected to nothing, before fading back into the murk.

The next time she clawed her way to consciousness, they'd stopped moving. She lay bonelessly on the cold stone where the felguard had dropped her, biting back a groan at the pulsing ache in her whole body and the sharper pain behind her eyes. If they knew she'd woken, they'd give her the drug again. Twisting Nether. She'd have  _something's_  head for this.

"- thought she was telling the truth, why did we take them?" A felguard's harsh demonic cut through the muffled agony in her brain.

"Lord Beltherac needs more mortals." Another voice, an even lower rumble. The doomguard. She silently cursed him. "The woman was lying. Probably. But if she was not...Banehollow has been asking questions. Nerothos has been whispering poison in his ear for too long. If this causes an incident, my master will not be pleased."

"That's  _your_  problem," the felguard sneered. "What do we do with them now?"

The doomguard growled softly in disapproval. "Mind your tongue or I'll pull it from your head." He paused a moment as Callista listened intently, trying to keep her breathing slow even as her heart raced.

"Take the eredar apostate and the undamaged human male," he continued finally. "Leave the others in the holding cells. If no one asks, we'll have them all anyway."

The felguard grunted an assent.

Armored boots rang off the stone near her head. Taloned hands slid beneath her shoulders and knees, and she gritted her teeth against the scream of her abused muscles as the demon lifted her again. He didn't carry her far, this time, however. Hinges creaked, and he dropped her to the flagstones after only a few paces. She couldn't suppress a hiss as large fingers dug into her calf, fastening a shackle around her right ankle with a final clink.

The footsteps retreated, a door slammed shut, and she dared, finally, to open her eyes.

She found herself in a narrow cell. Wavering torchlight fell through the barred window in the door, staining the floor in orange stripes. She sat up woozily and fingered the heavy chain that bound her ankle to the wall, giving a half-hearted tug. The bolts were secure, the metal pitted and cold beneath her touch.

"Hello?" she croaked.

No answer.

Without much hope, she shoved back the billowing pain in her head and groped for a spell. Only blankness answered, but a complex rune flared to life on the scarred wood of the door, its violet light dazzling her after so long in the dim underground.

"Nether," she cursed quietly. She dug the heels of her hands into her temples and groaned. Her shoulders and elbows protested even that small movement. Her cheek was swollen and sore where the felguard had struck her, and her head - ugh.

Her knee bumped something as she struggled to sit up further, making a hollow sloshing noise. She suddenly realized she was both hungry and desperately thirsty, and grabbed at the bucket, spilling water over her chin as she drank. A dark hunk of bread lay next to the bucket, and she fell on that next, despite it being stale enough to slice at the roof of her mouth. Afterwards, she leaned back against the clammy wall and drew up her knees, staring blearily at the door.

She ached everywhere, and the deadening pain in her head made it hard to focus on anything but breathing. Her companions...the memory crashed down on her finally with a dull weight of hopelessness. They'd taken Vorthaal somewhere. And someone else. Not Wynda. One of the men. A rogue wisp of thought -  _not Aren_  - before she dispersed it angrily. Pointless. There was nothing she could do about that, or anything, until she got out of this cell.

She shuddered and hugged her knees, fighting a cresting wave of nausea churned up by the headache and the cold water in her belly and a smothering tide of despair. At some point in her ordeal they'd stripped her of her weapon and thick outer robes, leaving her clad only in pants and thin linen tunic. They'd even taken her boots and socks, and the stone chilled her bare soles.

How was she going to get out of this?

Her own breaths sounded suddenly harsh and too sharp in her ears. She probed at the door again simply to quell the panic she felt clenching her throat, forcing her attention onto the counterspell's angry heatless flare until her breathing slowed again, gradually.

The doomguard had said something else, too. Nerothos was here. That could...potentially complicate things later, though she wished she'd known it for certain when she'd been spinning lies back in that forest. Banehollow's name had been a surer bet, but she'd only dealt personally with his underlings, and didn't know the dreadlord himself except by reputation. If they did take her out of this cell, it would be to him, and she doubted the encounter would be any more pleasant than whatever that doomguard's master had in store. She didn't think the lord of Jaedenar would look kindly on uppity little mortals attempting to trade on his name. Nerothos, at least, might have heard her out before throwing her to the torturers. Though even that was unsure. It had been more than a year since he'd found her in Booty Bay, and she'd seen nothing of him since.

She sighed and shivered, leaning her throbbing head back against the wall. Despite how little time she'd spent lucid over the last...days?...week?...exhaustion dragged at her with leaden hands.

Closing her eyes, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

She woke some time later. She'd pushed herself away from the wall as she drowsed, curling into a tight ball in the middle of the floor, and now she found that the stone had leeched all the warmth from her skin. She sat up trembling, prickled all over with goosebumps.

The cell didn't look any more promising than it had before her nap. Constructed entirely of grey lichen-splotched stone, featureless except for the door and the thick iron rings embedded into the wall, one of which held the chain binding her ankle.

She chafed her arms, wincing. The pulsing ache in her head had finally faded, but the rest of her body remained a stiff mass of pain. She slid the bucket closer and drank deeply from it before setting it empty on the ground.

At least her captors seemed marginally interested in keeping her alive, though she doubted she'd enjoy the reasons for that. So far as Burning Legion prisons went, this was not the worst she could have landed in. Her spirits had risen as the drugged fog in her head cleared, and she actually laughed dryly to herself. At least she was still on Azeroth. Though Tun wasn't in the cell with her this time. She missed him, selfishly. This was what happened when your friends started settling down. They couldn't go out as much anymore, and before you knew it you were left buying your own rounds at taverns and fumbling your way out of the dungeons of irate demonlords all alone…

She fought down another inappropriate laugh. Wallowing wouldn't help. She had to get out of here.

That ward on the door was the key. She stood, carefully, and though her bruised joints sent tearing shocks of pain through her at every motion it still felt good to be on her feet again. Her chain dragged at her ankle and jangled against the stone as she padded as close to the door as it allowed, but it was still too far away to touch. Pity.

She extended a hand toward it anyway, focusing her will. No ward was unbreakable, though often knowing the solution did one little good from the inside. Still, it would be a start.

The rune sputtered and spat purple light as she pressed at it with her magic. She felt the heavy thrum of power behind it, but it wasn't a very sophisticated mark. Cruder than the similar spells she used to imprison her captured demons, but recently refreshed and very strong. Almost certainly not permanent; they probably changed the wards on the holding cells to suit each crop of prisoners.

Frustrated, she struck at it, and though her spell dissipated impotently, the ward itself leaked power, like a wet sponge hit with a stick. That annoyed her more. Shoddy work. She could imagine the creature who'd done it, too. Some dried up old Shadow Council orc who still imagined himself the heir of Gul'dan, despite the fact his demon masters had set him to housekeeping in their dungeons. Embarrassing, that it was still enough to trap her here.

She scowled and paced across the narrow cell, ignoring the tug and scrape of her chain against the stone. It was obvious that this cell wasn't meant to hold anyone of any power for any length of time. Given a week or two, she thought she could erode the ward enough to escape, not that she expected to have that long. Even so, she had to try. Her chances would only grow worse wherever they took her next.

Days passed, though she couldn't have said how many by the changeless torchlight that flickered through the bars. When she'd spent so long worrying at the ward that the back of her eyes burned, she slept. Periodically, the clank of armored boots on stone would alert her that her jailor was coming back, and then she'd stop and curl against the back wall of her cell, watching the accusatory violet glow of the rune fade through half-closed eyes.

It was always the same felguard who came; a scarred, taciturn creature carrying a dented bludgeon in one hand. He'd open the door, slide a chunk of hard bread and a pail of water across the floor at her (indifferent as to whether or not he spilled most of it) and leave.

She was making progress, though not fast enough. She'd slept three times since they'd tossed her in here half-drugged, and with each attempt her spell fizzled out against the ward a little less cleanly. Never enough to do actual damage, though. Reaching for her magic was like grabbing again and again at a greased ring; never quite getting purchase, but each time coming so close that she sometimes slammed her shackled ankle against the floor in frustration.

This time, she'd been trying for what must have been hours. Her head buzzed and swam, and she squeezed her fingertips against her temples in something dangerously close to despair. It was taking too long. She was intimately familiar with the ward by now, knew every channel and line of its construction; she could have made and unmade it a dozen times if she were free, and her continued impotence despite her understanding was maddening.

She grimaced and continued to pick at it anyway, probing with iron patience for a flaw she knew didn't exist. Sleep tugged at her eyelids, but she resisted it stubbornly, knowing it would only bring greater desperation upon waking.

She was so absorbed in the pattern that she didn't notice the felguard's approach until the door yanked open.

She hissed, startled, and scooted back on her hands toward the far wall of the cell.

The felguard saw the light bleeding from the ward on the door, growled in outraged surprise, and lunged at her.

She flinched back, and even as she scrambled to the side, trying to dodge the blow he aimed at her, she felt it. A weakening in the ward, just enough that she -

"Ah!" she cried out as the truncheon came down on her shoulder with a meaty snap. A brief moment of ominous numbness; then the pain rolled over her in a grey wave, pressing a mangled gasp from her lungs.

The flickering ward-light winked out.

"Try that again, human, and next time I'll crack your skull."

His words seemed to come from a long way away, echoing down a jagged corridor of pain.

She closed her eyes to slits, gritting her teeth between hitched breaths. Beneath her lashes, she saw the rune on the door let out a single spiteful spark, and she clamped down hard with the frayed vestiges of her will.

The felguard aimed a kick at her and connected solidly with her hamstring. More pain. This time a dull throbbing explosion rather than a cutting sharpness, and she didn't try not to cringe or to swallow her groan.

He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, letting out a low threatening huff.

When she gave no resistance, he jostled her hard with the iron sole of his boot, then stalked from the cell and slammed the door.

Nether, this was worse than the drug. She lay on her back, breathing in choked gasps, feeling water seep into the fabric of her tunic from the bucket he'd overturned. She tried to lift her right arm, but the barbed fissures of agony that burst from her shoulder stopped her. The leg he'd kicked pulsed with her heartbeat, a deep bruised ache.

Beneath the pain, however, nestled a hard kernel of satisfaction. The door ward snapped back into violet brilliance at her attention, but uncertainly. It had dimmed in places, some of its luminous filigree fading back into lifeless wood.

She curled a lip in scorn mixed with pain. That rune truly had been a makeshift effort. Spell efficacy diminished quickly with distance, and when the felguard opened the door, the extra space had weakened it just enough for her to slip her will into its workings, like jamming a fingernail beneath a splinter to pry it up.

Clenching her teeth, she tried one last time to shift her injured arm. A fierce grinding stopped her, pain like sharp claws dragging down the soft marrow of her collarbone. Broken, she was almost sure. She gulped down deep wavering breaths until the worst of the ache subsided.

That was alright. She didn't try to move again, resting her cheek against the grainy stone of the floor.

She still had that soul shard she'd swallowed. The next time that felguard returned, the encounter would be much more interesting.

Reinvigorated by the thought, she dismantled the warding rune before she slept with savage relish.

* * *

He barely struggled, in the end.

Ears pricked for his heavy footsteps in the hallway, she seized the demon before he even opened the door of her cell. Wholly unprepared for the assault, she'd stunned him, and by the time he'd thought to fumble for the key to her cell he was hers.

It had all been easier than she expected, though the sensation of the soul shard unbinding in her stomach made her violently nauseated. She knelt on the floor and vomited what little food was in her belly into the corner, panting. The convulsion jarred her broken collarbone, bringing tears to her eyes.

The felguard stood stiffly in the open doorway of her cell, a huge spiked silhouette against the torch-glare. "Weak," he sneered.

She ignored him, grimacing at the pain and the sour taste of bile, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Crying and heaving up her guts half-dressed in a corner wasn't the  _best_  first impression she'd ever made, but, fortunately, demonic enslavement didn't really hinge on respect. "Unchain me."

He did, glowering, with the graceless jerky motion of a creature whose limbs didn't answer to his own will. "You will beg for a clean death."

She eyed him distastefully, standing and leaning one hand against the clammy stone for balance. Her leg and shoulder still sent shocks of pain through her at every shift, and her cheek was raw and swollen where the other creature had struck her. She could siphon power to heal herself, but drawing magic directly from demons, even enslaved ones, was always a little risky. Just ask any of the poor foolish Sin'dorei.

Worth it anyway, she decided.

A shadowy rope of power snapped from her hand to the center of his chest, and a sickly warmth bloomed under her skin. The warmth grew to a burn, euphoric and searing all at once, and she cut off the spell with a strained gasp.

The felguard bared his fangs at her, stumbling against the doorjamb, but she paid him no mind. Instead, she pulled down the neckline of her tunic far enough to see her collarbone. The former purple swelling had flattened and faded to the yellow ghost of a bruise. She released the fabric, satisfied.

Her head buzzed with the sudden dose of fel magic as she turned, again, to the felguard. She wasn't sure she cared for the feeling. It reminded her of being a little too drunk; both states made her head swim and her teeth numb, and later she'd have a punishing headache.

The felguard glared at her, murder in his piggish little eyes, but she didn't miss the subtle hunch in his broad shoulders when she looked at him. Being used as a living mana crystal  _hurt_. Possibly as much as having your shoulder shattered by a metal truncheon, or at least it appealed to her sense of parity to think so.

"There were others with me when I was brought in," she said. "Two humans and a dwarf. Take me to them."

He growled, but after all, he had no choice.

* * *

This was a dream, though once it had happened in truth.

"The boy cannot pass," Captain Behrend said. His voice was steady, but there was something listless in the man's face. His usually jovially plump features seemed to sag, eyes watery and bloodshot with smoke.

The boy, no more than ten, sobbed brokenly, clutching the red welt on his wrist where the Light had burned him. Behind him, the line of Stratholme citizens, many still in their nightclothes, shifted uneasily.

"He can't be sick!" his mother, a thin woman in a patched skirt, protested. "We ain't had enough coin for new grain in days."

The boy's cry stuttered into a hoarse cough, and the murmurs of the people behind him took on an angry frightened note.

"I am sorry," Captian Behrend said. "None of the ill may pass. You can cross the cordon alone, or you can both stay here. Step aside, please, ma'am, while you decide." He looked past her to the waiting line of refugees and motioned to the man in front, eyes nearly as dead as those of the monstrosities that stalked them. "Please come forward!"

The woman's face twisted savagely as she balled her hands into fists. "You're killing us! He's just a child! You want to murder us, at least do it yourself, cowards!"

She took a step forward, raising a hand as though to strike the captain, and Aren half-drew his sword, making sure she saw the gleam of the metal in the fireglare.

Despite her words, she hesitated, then. Putting a protective arm around her son's shoulders, she turned away sharply. Even after everything he'd seen this night, the naked despair on her face smote Aren's heart.

"I am sorry," Captain Behrend said again.

"Shadow take you!" the woman said, and spat.

Aren sheathed his blade again, standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow guardsmen in the cordon that blocked the only gate through their makeshift barricade. A pair of exhausted priests stood before him, checking the townspeople for the plague's corruption before letting the healthy through into the protected square beyond.

Despite the late hour, they bore no torches. The glare of the great burning was bright enough to see by, a lurid, flickering glow. The air reeked of smoke, but beneath it Aren thought he could smell something rotten. Or maybe that was only a fearful imagining.

He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, squeezing a creak from the hardened leather of his gloves. He couldn't stop his eyes from roving across the crowd, searching desperately for faces he knew. His parents, aunts, cousins. He hadn't seen any of them in days, not since the first rumors of the killing sickness and the undeath that followed. His mouth tasted like ash, and he knew, if he were fortunate, that they were only dead.

The city had fallen. Captain Behrend hadn't said the words, but Aren knew it to be true. The garrison had lost control of everything from the cathedral to the market district to the eastern slums, and any coordinated action seemed to dissolve in a toxic swirl of rumor. Some said it was only the shambling plague victims that stalked the city. Others spoke of a great winged demon with burning eyes. Sir Uther the Lightbringer was here; Sir Uther had fled the carnage and left them all to the Light's judgment. Some said the spreading fire was an accident. Others said the city was to be razed at the behest of Prince Arthas himself. They said the prince hunted the great demon; they said he served it. They said he'd killed Sir Uther and Lady Jaina. They said he'd gone mad.

Aren shuddered and coughed in the thickening smoke, ignoring the nervous sidelong glance from the guard beside him. He'd been in the city garrison for five years, but had never had more to deal with than petty thieves and the occasional belligerent drunk. He'd never wanted to fight monsters. He wasn't sure he was made for this.

The crowd before him heaved suddenly, screams cresting like a wave.

"One at a time!" Captain Behrend roared. Then, to Aren's men: "Shields up!"

Aren locked shields with the men on either side of him, bracing himself as the front of the mob crashed against them. The shrieks intensified as the guardsmen shoved forward, steel slamming into soft yielding bodies. He faced a sea of scrabbling limbs and white panicked eyes as the people closest to the guard tried to stumble back but were prevented by the weight of their fellows.

Then, all at once, the frantic screams coalesced into a single cry - " _Prince Arthas!_ " - and the weight on his shield became almost unbearable. Aren grit his teeth and pushed back harder, fighting his own answering terror.

A hand suddenly clapped down hard on the boiled leather of his pauldron, startling him. Captain Behrend. "No more time!" He shouted close to Aren's ear to be heard over the din. "Take Second Company and go. Get the healthy out, you know the way!"

Aren gave a curt nod, stomach dropping queasily. It wasn't supposed to come to this. They were all supposed to go together. He  _did_  know the way, a secret hole in the city walls, smugglers used it in happier times to avoid the tariffs at the gate…

Beneath his fear and horror, a selfish shiver of relief. Maybe he would survive this madness.

But without his men, First Company could not hold.

He could hear, distantly, the relentless ring of heavily-shod hoofs on cobblestones. Human cries. The hard clang of sword on sword, shockingly loud -

He woke with a gasp, shivering on the cold stone floor of his cell. Not real, not anymore, nothing but dream and memory...but waking didn't bring its usual solace.

His head ached, throat dry and parched. Water. They sometimes left him water. He groped for the bucket but couldn't find it. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and the world spun hazily even as he lay on the floor. He reached for the Light reflexively, as he always did, but nothing answered. Demons. They had taken them all. Callista and Ander and Vorthaal and Wynda and Nathanial...but not Luciel. Luciel was dead. His fault. Perhaps she was lucky. The Light could not reach them here. He was -

Another loud crash, metal screeched against metal, an angry snarl. Stratholme, still? He thought he'd woken. Was this another of the Legion's torments? That nightmares caught him even in the waking world?

He smelled burning flesh now, heard a wet choking gurgle.

Torchlight flooded his cell, blinding after so long in the shadows, and he squinted his good eye almost closed. A heavy metal boot crossed behind the spots in his vision. Felguard, one of his jailors. Once he might have thought of trying to escape, but now he simply closed his eyes. Hopefully the creature would only set down the water and leave without punishing him further.

"Aren. Can you hear me?" A steady voice. Concerned. Callista? No, it couldn't be. She was dead. He'd damned her like all the rest.

A hand touched his forehead, cool against his feverish skin. "Aren. We have to go."

"Merciful Light, lad, you look a sight."

...Wynda?

It wasn't possible. He opened his eye again, steeling himself for disappointment.

Callista crouched near his head, one hand reaching to press the backs of her fingers against his temple. Dried blood streaked her face and matted the hair that had escaped from its knot. More of it spotted the front of her tunic in a rusty constellation, though she did not appear to be wounded. She smiled wanly at his regard.

"I - you're alive," he rasped.

"It's going to be alright," she said with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Come on. We need to get out of here."

Something moved behind her and his eye rolled drunkenly to focus on it. Familiar shapes against the open door of his cell. Wynda and Ander.

Stunned, he licked his parched lips and struggled to raise himself up onto one hand. "How?" he managed.

"Time for tales later, lad," Wynda said. She didn't look quite as unscathed as Callista; her swordhand hung against her chest in a makeshift sling, and bruises mottled the freckled skin of her face red and purple. "Come along now."

Callista helped him lurch carefully to his feet. He put an arm around her waist, half for balance and half for the warm comforting feel of her body against his side, and pressed his face briefly into her hair. She smelled of sweat and earth and the singed-air tang of residual magic that always seemed to cling to her. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine that this, too, was a dream; the scarred stone walls of the cell would fade like the fires of poor dead Stratholme and he would wake, tangled in the inn's coarse sheets, the heat of her breath tickling his chest...

Then her arm tightened around him before she gently pushed him away. "Let's go. We don't have much time."

The fantasy shattered. He started and took a halting step forward, ashamed of his own indulgence.

A deep voice rumbled something derisive in demonic. He stiffened at the sound, fists clenching, but Callista nudged him forward out of the cell. "Don't mind Hathrak. He's having a bad day."

Despite the reassuring touch of her hand on his back, he tensed again at the sight of the felguard standing rigidly against the damp-streaked wall of the corridor. The monster towered over Wynda and Ander even without the spikes bristling from his armor. His cuirass only covered half his muscular chest, revealing leathery skin the color of old blood, and his lips peeled back from his fangs in a rictus of hatred at Aren's regard. An almost identical creature lay crumpled at his feet, dead.

"I'll kill your lover first, witch," he snarled in roughly-accented Common. "Should I tell you how I'll do it?"

"Keep it to yourself, you great bollix," Wynda suggested.

Aren's vision blurred, head spinning, and he braced himself against the wall as he eyed Callista uncertainly. What kind of ally was this? If this was another of her pet fiends, it didn't seem as tame as the hound.

Callista flicked the felguard a cool glance but ignored his railing, leaning against the doorway of the cell to brush a sharp pebble from the sole of her foot. "Take us to our clothes."

The felguard growled dangerously, but after a brief pause he thrust himself away from the wall and stalked off down the corridor, an oddly spasmodic motion.

Aren moved to follow, but stumbled, head still swimming. "What  _is_  he?" he rasped.

Callista slipped an arm around him again, supporting his shambling walk down the corridor.

"Bound, for now," she said. Her voice was calm, but he could feel the tension coiled in her fingers. "It's alright. I'll need to get rid of him soon, though."

What did that mean? He needed to think, get things under control, but the dizziness rolled over him like breakers. Standing in strong surf, waves crashing against his knees. He would not be pulled under. Where were they?

He looked blearily around, focus snagged by Wynda and Ander as they limped in front of him. Ander leaned heavily on the dwarf's good shoulder, favoring one leg, the bottom third of his trousers torn and caked with blood. Fortunately, the floor was smooth and even, oddly so - the walls were natural stone, not cut blocks like his cell. Hard granite, glittering with mica, furred with black tufts of dead moss. Lit by torches set in sconces chased with leaping stags. This did not look like the lair of demons.

"Where are we?" he croaked.

"Jaedenar," Callista said. Her confidence, for once, did not allay his worry. "The seat of the Burning Legion in Felwood. Druids used to enter the Dream here, before the demons killed them all and took the tunnels." She glanced at him, bitterly amused. "Much as I hate to say I told you so..."

His heart sank, and he shut his good eye briefly as they stumped along. "I see." He paused, afraid of the answer to his next question. "Where - what about Nathanial? And Vorthaal?"

He felt more than heard her sigh as she looked away, no longer amused.

"We don't know, lad," Wynda said quietly.

"They took them somewhere else," Callista said. "Even that one couldn't tell me." She nodded her chin at the felguard's spiny sullen back.

By the Lightbringer. He looked at Ander's hunched form as he clung to Wynda's shoulder, unreadably silent. "We  _will_  find them, Ander," he said hoarsely. "The Argent Dawn doesn't leave its people behind."

"I'd be careful making promises here, if I were you," Callista said softly.

Ander bristled, jerking his head around to look at them. His hair fell in lank tangles around a face raw with grief. "I don't want to hear it."

The felguard actually laughed. "I'm sure you'll join your friend soon, little fool." He stopped in front of an arched oak door cleverly set into the unworked stone of the tunnel and unlocked it, shoving it open contemptuously.

Callista, who until now had ignored the felguard's outbursts with deliberate thoroughness, finally narrowed her eyes at him. "I wonder," she said, in a dryly conversational tone that was somehow more alarming than open hostility, "if instead of killing you when this is over, I shouldn't just lock you in a cell for your captain to find."

The felguard snarled, whirling in the doorway to face her. "You swore you'd grant me death."

Aren flinched at the demon's sudden aggression, but Callista's arm around his waist remained still and hard as stone. "Oh, dear," she said, a chill he hadn't imagined her capable of creeping into her voice. "Are we all keeping our promises, now?" Amusement, equally cold, in the grey knife of her gaze. "What do you imagine we both are?"

Aren shuddered against her and hoped she didn't notice, glad that look had never been leveled at him.

The felguard sneered, but the defiance in it wilted quickly. He dropped his eyes before she did, turning away through the open door with a noncommittal grunt.

Feeling dizzy and more than a little cowed himself, Aren let Callista lead him into the room, piling into the cluttered space behind Wynda and Ander and pulling the door shut behind them.

Darkness blinded even his good eye.

Callista conjured a fist-sized ball of flame that rose up and hovered near the ceiling, making the shadows leap like hounds before subsiding behind the shelves that lined every wall. Goods lay piled on the stone floor in between, a chaotic abundance of cloaks and boots and bloody Sentinel armor, strips of dried meat tumbled up with swords and canteens and stained bedrolls in no particular order. Everything the Legion had taken from its prisoners and judged to be of little value.

Wynda eased Ander down next to a colorful heap of clothing. "Best start digging," she said, immediately taking her own advice.

Aren separated from Callista, grabbing the edge of a rickety shelf for support. He recognized one of their canteens among the litter of knives and flint, tent canvas and torn rucksacks, and snatched it up hopefully. Water still sloshed inside. He tipped a little into his palm, just to be sure, then tilted the opening to his mouth, grateful for the coolness on his parched throat.

The felguard glowered in the farthest corner from Callista, looming out of the shadows like a gargoyle in some defiled temple. "I did as you ordered, human. Now let me die, before they find you."

"Coward," Ander muttered.

The felguard snarled. "My punishment would be even worse than yours, weakling. Remember this moment when they're feeding you your own entrails."

Callista crinkled her nose at the imagery, but didn't immediately retort. Instead, she picked a scabbarded sword from one of the dusty piles, half drawing it to check the ruby gleam of its edge in the firelight. "You want death? Fine." She handed the weapon to him hilt-first. "Take it, then."

Aren almost stopped her - the Argent Dawn did not simply execute its prisoners - but the words died on his tongue in a roil of confusion. The Argent Dawn also had no truck with demons. Was this how mercy looked now? It was like he'd woken in that cell to find some bottom had fallen out of the world, and he couldn't still his tumble long enough to find which way the light came in.

In the end, he did nothing, because she was full of certainty and he had only doubt.

The felguard bared fangs in a frigid smile. " _Your_ end will be messiest of all, witch." He unsheathed the blade and tossed the scabbard away carelessly. Without hesitation, he flipped the sword around and pressed the point just below his ruddy-skinned breastbone, driving it up and inwards with savage strength. He sank to his knees and then slumped forward, black blood welling around the hilt. It trickled from his fingers to the floor in dark runnels, reflecting the wavering fireglare as he shuddered out a few labored gasps and then lay still.

Wynda turned away in disgust. "Foul barbarian."

Callista watched until his last rattling breath before returning her attention to a striped wool sock she'd plucked from the mess. The abstracted indifference on her face chilled him, and Aren shivered. It's only a demon, he reminded himself. Light knows, it deserved no better. Suddenly unsteady, he let go of the shelf and sat, heavily, on the ground. Shadows licked at the corners of his vision, and he rested his cheek against the splintery wood.

"Let me look at your head, lad," Wynda said.

He winced as she rested her fingertips on the swelling around his eye, clucking her tongue in concern. This close, he could see the network of broken veins in the bruises on her face, a lacy stain of spilled blood beneath the skin - then the wholesome warmth of the Light eclipsed his vision, clean and gentling, and when the brightness faded, he found that his injured eye had cleared.

"That should help," she said, "though I daresay you still have a touch of that concussion."

"Thank you." He looked at her arm, looped with a dirty strip of cloth against her chest. "What did you want to do about that?"

She shielded it defensively with her other hand. "Nothing, 'til we have time to look at it properly. Not worth the risk."

Aren nodded. Field healing was fine for simple injuries, but could permanently reduce function if the wound was complex enough, especially to a delicate joint like the wrist. Neither he nor Wynda were that skilled at mending. "Alright." He stood without grasping at anything this time. Though he still felt a little unbalanced, the worst of the dizziness was gone. "How can we find the others and get out of here?"

Callista shook her head. She'd pulled a pair of mismatched socks on over her bare feet, and now she knelt near a pile of boots, sorting the promising ones into a smaller heap at her side. "We need to get out first. Then we can try to go after the others."

"No," Ander said harshly. He flinched as Wynda rolled up the bloody hem of his pants, exposing a long clumsily-bandaged gash along his calf. "I'm not leaving Nate to some-"

"You have no choice," Callista cut in ruthlessly. "You don't even know where  _we_  are. How do you expect to find anyone else?"

Ander's fists clenched into tight balls in his lap. "That doesn't matter. He gave himself up because of  _me_! How can you expect me to just - "

"Easy, lad," Wynda said, laying a hand gently on his knee. "No one's suggesting we abandon Nathanial. Or Vorthaal. But we need to be sensible, or we won't help anyone."

Aren sighed, squeezing the cold metal of the canteen until his knuckles paled. He knew as well as anyone how it felt to leave someone behind. Guilt and grief and useless anger, the cruel hope of not knowing, and beneath it all that shameful gratitude -  _thank you, Light, it wasn't me..._

He breathed deeply, stoppering the flood of memories before they could rise and drown him. His duty, now, was to the people he knew were still alive. "They're both right, Ander. We're lost and wounded. And soon those guards you killed will be missed. We need to get out of here, if we can. But we  _will_ come back for your brother. I swear it."

Callista's mouth twitched skeptically, but she didn't admonish him for the oath this time.

He looked at her. "What did that demon tell you? Can you find the way out?"

She shrugged, laying aside a battered leather sandal. The floating fire cast dark shadows beneath her eyes and mouth, deepening her already weary expression. "Yes and no. These caves are vast. Hathrak knew one way out, but it passed through a number of checkpoints, locked doors. They'd never let us through, not looking like this. We'd need a distraction. Or a scout to find a different way."

Aren grimaced, staring at the dented canteen still in his hand without really seeing it. He'd go himself, if he could, but a paladin didn't make a very convincing servant of the Burning Legion. "What if you cleaned yourself up? Do you think you could talk yourself out, find a way around?"

Callista shook her head. Even now, he found her beautiful - the flickering shadows played up the fine bones in her face, and whatever had caused the blood on her tunic hadn't seemed to shake her self-possession. "Out? Maybe. In again to find you? Never." She paused. "I was thinking of sending my succubus. Azlia can go unseen when she wants, and a demon would be less conspicuous anyway."

"Another blasted fiend," Wynda grumbled. She'd finished with Ander's leg and was now rummaging through a shelf stacked with weaponry. "Couldn't be any more rotten than the last one, I suppose."

"Fine," Aren said. It wasn't much of a plan, but they had little information to work with right now. "Let's say your demon is able to find a way out. What happens then? The forest above us must be guarded, it's how they caught us the first time."

Callista hesitated for a moment amid the jumble of shoes, seeming to weigh her words. "If we can get to the surface, we should be able to blend in. Mortal warlocks are common in Jaedenar proper. Paladins are  _not_ , but if you can avoid using the Light, you could pass as mercenaries."

He almost asked her how she was so sure, but something trapped the words in his throat. He remembered other strange pauses, even stranger certainties. The way she'd laughed at him, once, when he'd doubted the Legion presence in Felwood.

He stamped the suspicion out angrily, appalled at himself. She was a warlock, she was  _supposed_  to know things, it was why they'd - he'd - dragged her into this in the first place. And if she hadn't always been perfectly honest with him...well. That was a conversation for a different time.

Callista watched him with her brow arched questioningly; he'd been silent for too long.

"Alright," he said. "Summon your demon."

* * *

Not so very far away, the dreadlord Nerothos was having an exceptionally trying afternoon.

"You do understand why you're here," he said. He kept his voice silkily even, but a duller creature than the one in front of him would have sensed the menace in it anyway.

Xavilis' jaw tightened beneath its absurd red brush of beard. This obnoxious upstart claimed to be old enough to remember the Sundering, but his Eredun still carried a Darnassian lilt. "You overreach yourself, dreadlord. These woods were ours long before your little cabal fled - excuse me -  _withdrew_ from that disastrous attempt on Hyjal. Any trade we seize along the Azshara road belongs to Satyrnaar."

Refusing to be baited, Nerothos laid a palm flat on the table that stood between them, leaning over it slightly. He did  _hate_  satyrs. Most demons weak-blooded enough to remember their mortal origins at least kept quiet about it, but Xavius' wretched spawn actually put on airs over their past lives. As if even the natives of this pathetic world recalled the Highborne any longer. Prince, this one styled himself. Of what, Nerothos often wondered. A few dirty moonwells hardly comprised a kingdom.

"Yes. You have been here a  _long_  while," he agreed. "And you've made such astonishing progress. I can see why you'd resent our interference."

Xavilis' narrow goatish face twisted into a scowl.

There was no point in hiding his contempt, so Nerothos continued anyway. "You've captured...what? Fifteen, twenty Kaldorei outposts? In ten thousand years? Truly a  _singular_  addition to the Legion's triumphs. Mercifully."

Xavilis bristled, bringing a hairy fist down on the table hard enough that the wood jumped. "Enough! How many victories have  _you_  won, skulking in this cave? The Shadow Council promised us weapons, powerful artifacts. Where are these things? It's no wonder my people grow restless."

Grow insolent and disobedient was more likely. It had been too long since the Burning Legion had any real presence in this forest. These satyrs had been brought into the fold ten thousand years ago and then almost immediately isolated when Zin-Azshari foundered. They'd clearly forgotten what little they'd learned about their place in the greater order. Banehollow had been too busy of late to remind them properly, but Nerothos, fortunately, found himself with ample free time. "Then perhaps they need a stronger hand to steer them."

Xavilis' lip peeled back from his fangs, voice so rough with anger that its cultured lilt was almost erased. "You go too far. Banehollow - "

" _Lord_  Banehollow is as eager as you are to receive better armaments. And where do these things come from, do you imagine?"

"I didn't meet you here to be - "

"They come from our workshops, naturally," Nerothos continued, cutting him off with a cold smile. "Workshops that require raw materials. Iron, starwood, prismatic shards. Things we can only acquire through trade with the few allies we possess in this miserable little backwater. So, do explain to me why your sect has been slaughtering the agents of the one goblin cartel that acknowledges our contracts."

Xavilis scowled, rolling his large shoulders recalcitrantly. "None of those caravans were travelling to Jaedenar. We checked."

Nerothos clicked his tongue in faux sympathy. "Did you, now." He sensed no lie; he was sure one of the satyr's brethren had accidentally torn open a bill of lading while he was picking through the corpses. That was hardly the point.

Xavilis' eyes narrowed and he drew a deep huffing breath, about to launch into another diatribe.

Nerothos continued before he could start. "Need I explain to you how  _trade_  works, Xavilis?" He spread his wings contemptuously, casting a wide shadow across the satyr. "The Sweetwater mogul is incensed. If their operations are unprofitable, his Cartel will liquidate their Ashenvale branch, inconveniencing  _me_  greatly. Kill whoever else you like, enslave as many Kaldorei as you can drag back to your hovels, but you  _will_  leave the Sweetwater caravans alone."

Xavilis growled. "Weakness. We never needed these mortals before. They're good only for carrion. Lord Beltherac -"

"Beltherac does not rule in Jaedenar." Nerothos tilted his head, the menace in his tone rising as he subtly curled his wings, eclipsing even more of the torchlight. "And I'm not interested in your false expediency."

To his credit, Xavilis only faltered briefly, a flutter of dropped gaze before his hackles rose again. "Jaedenar is no longer the only Legion power in this forest. Remember it when you speak to me, dreadlord."

"And Satyrnaar is a very small name on the Shadow Council's very long list of available assets. Best give me fewer reasons to remember  _that_ , when I speak to you."

Xavilis sneered, but made no retort.

"Good afternoon,  _Prince_ ," Nerothos said with cold cordiality.

Accepting his dismissal with poor grace, the satyr grunted a farewell as he stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him.

Nerothos folded his wings abruptly, unable to suppress his irritation now that he was unwatched. This was not the first reprimand Xavilis had earned, but the creature appeared to be becoming less, rather than more, tractable with time. Beltherac's doing, no doubt. That was troublesome. The other dreadlord had never been affiliated with the Shadow Council before, and Nerothos was more than idly curious to know what he was doing here now. Cultivating an oblivious sect of religious heretics was a useful enough pastime, but Jaedenar's doorstep was an odd place to do it in. Even with Stormwind's latest crackdown on fel magic. No, this was something more personal.

The heavy oak door had barely swung shut when it flew open again, interrupting his musing. Gurzon Shadowmaul, a grizzled old orc with one arm missing at the elbow, slouched to a halt in front of him. "Lord Nerothos."

"What is it now?" Nerothos asked. Gurzon should have had better things to do than skulk outside waiting for Xavilis to leave - this did not bode well.

The orc thumbed the seamed burn scar that covered half of his jaw, an unconscious nervous gesture. "The deathknight. He's here. He...uh. He brought back one of your spies."

Nerothos narrowed his eyes, ignoring Gurzon's answering flinch. He wasn't in the habit of shooting his own messengers, though not all of his servants seemed to have grasped the fact yet. "Show me," he said.

"Of course. He's in the great hall." He turned and scuttled back out through the doorway, moving rapidly despite his age and old injuries.

Nerothos followed Gurzon's thin crooked back out into the corridor. These barrow dens had belonged to the Kaldorei once; the pillars that braced the ceiling were skillfully carved to look like trees, and the lanterns set among the stone boughs shed dappled light like sunlight through leaves. Not all the stonework had survived the Shadow Council's conquest, however. The broken lanterns had been replaced with felfire torches, and their hungry, flickering glare gave the impression that the great stone forest burned. Not at all inappropriate, really.

The hallway curved right, then opened out into the massive cavern of the inner hold. Nerothos did not care for the curious, almost eager, glances the guards flung sidelong at him as he passed.

A small knot of people stood near the dais where Banehollow usually held court. Banehollow himself was there, of course; along with his attendant, Fel'dan, and the bony form of the dead human. The motley collection of mortal warlocks, satyrs, and succubi that always populated the hold had arrayed themselves around them at a prudent distance while pretending, with varying degrees of conviction, to be doing something other than eavesdropping. The soft murmur of conversation faltered as Nerothos approached, then rose again as they resumed their ineffectual play of indifference.

"Nerothos," Banehollow said, spreading and folding his wings in a clipped, irritated movement. "I am told this belongs to you."

There was little question as to what "this" was. The crumpled body of a human male lay quivering on the dirty floor of the cavern. Still alive, regrettably, though probably not for long. His eyes were missing and his breaths came in short wet rasps from the bloody hole of his mouth. No tongue. Few teeth, either, though that may have been a prior quality. The man - Rodger something-or-other, mortal names were rarely worth remembering for precisely this reason - hadn't been one of his race's more impressive specimens.

Nerothos sneered, annoyed, and turned to the tattered corpse standing next to his former agent. The deathknight's hands rested on the pommel of a slender rune-marked blade, yellowed bone breaking through his leathery skin at the knuckles. The mouldering sigil of the Silver Hand was still legible on his tabard. "Well, go on," Nerothos said. "You've already wasted enough of our time."

The corpse drew a dry hissing breath, preparing to speak. His voice was a bloodless rasp, utterly without inflection. "No message."

Of course not. Beltherac had never been much of a conversationalist, even when they'd both been very nearly young, and a few millennia of imprisonment seemed to have improved neither his wit nor his temper.

"Then get out," Nerothos said blandly. He had a sudden fantasy of wrenching the soul from that rotting husk and immolating it, but dismissed it quickly. That would only amuse Beltherac, who was too skilled a necromancer not to have ways of resurrecting his favorite toy.

The deathknight turned silently, sheathing his blade at his side as he went. Frost webbed the stone where the point had touched. The mutilated human twitched, brushing the frozen ground with the stump of a hand, and let out a gurgling whimper. His writhing disturbed the mouth of the stained sack tied around his neck, which fell open slightly, revealing the flayed tip of a finger. With the nail missing. How thorough.

Banehollow gave a low rumble of disapproval. "I grow tired of your idiotic feud."

Nerothos switched his attention from the dying human to his irritated colleague. That was rich, coming from him. "And how much Xorothian stardust have you peddled this week?"

Banehollow scowled. He took a deliberate step nearer, but since the two nathrezim were almost of a height, his attempt at looming had little effect. "That isn't remotely the same. You're wasting our resources and my time pestering our allies. There are few enough of us left on this rock as it is. What advantage do you gain by pursuing this now?"

Nerothos had worked closely with Banehollow on many campaigns over the last few thousand years, but this matter was even more ancient than that alliance. He saw no reason to explain himself now. Better to simply placate the other dreadlord until he had more to show than vague suspicions. "I assure you, you won't hear of this again," he said.

Banehollow pierced him with a sour skeptical look. "Because there will be nothing to hear about, of course," he said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. He turned away anyway, his attendant, Fel'dan, close at his hooves.

Nerothos was certain he hadn't heard the last of this. Still, it was good enough, for now.

The mewling coming from that half-dead mortal was becoming irksome. Nerothos curled a lip back from his fangs and flung an order at Gurzon, who he could hear shuffling uncertainly a few steps behind him. "Dispose of this fool."

Without waiting to see the result, he whirled and stalked out of the cavern. Embarrassing. This wasn't the first of his informants Beltherac had dispatched, but never before had he dared to do it so openly. At first the attrition had bothered him little - his rival was no fool, and most of those spies had been barely competent to begin with - but the losses were beginning to be damaging. That misadventure on Xoroth had kept him away longer than he had expected, and his position here had suffered as a result. His reservoir of even marginally loyal agents was growing very shallow indeed. And he wasn't likely to be overwhelmed with volunteers after that little display.

Brooding, he spared little attention for where he was going, but headed generally downwards, towards his quarters. Xavilis would be insufferable once he heard of this. Perhaps it was time he -

An odd rattling sound caught his ear.

He paused, looking for the source. After a moment it came again - a soft furtive clatter. He narrowed his eyes when he saw one of the iron-jacketed doors that studded the corridor jiggle slightly. This area was restricted to the highest echelons of the Shadow Council. Someone had clearly made a grave error.

Feeling a preemptive glow of satisfaction at the idea of venting his ire on whoever was on the other side, Nerothos quietly laid a clawed hand on the door. Releasing the ward that bound it shut, he wrenched it open violently.

A sayaad tumbled after it in a flurry of hooves and wings, uttering a high yelp of alarm.

Snarling, Nerothos seized her by the neck and slammed her against one of the tree-like pillars that supported the ceiling, holding her under one of the lamps. Her short claws scrabbled at his hand, hooves banging uselessly against his armored legs, until his grip on her throat tightened ominously and she stilled.

Nerothos smiled icily. "Whatever fool called you here - "

He broke off suddenly, realizing as her face tilted up towards the light that he  _recognized_  this creature. He snarled again, in surprise this time, and loosened his grip incrementally, letting her slide down the pillar until her hooves touched the floor. " _You._ "

She gasped for air as the panic faded from her delicate face. It was replaced by alarmed realization, consternation, and an intense spasm of dislike in approximately that order. She lashed her tail balefully between the pillar and his leg, but otherwise remained silent.

Nerothos gave her a rough shake, feeling the frustration he'd hoped to release flaring again with his bewilderment. Why was Callista's insolent minion slinking around the Shadow Hold? He knew everything that moved within Jaedenar, and he'd been unaware that the warlock was even in the city.

No part of this pleased him.

Tightening his hand, he dug his claws in hard enough to raise dark beads of blood on the sayaad's neck, voice a dangerous purr. "Where is your mistress?"

Azlia - for he was certain, now, that that was the succubus' name - merely licked her full lips and then curled them in an impudent smile. "Like I told you the  _last_  time, dreadlord, nowhere that's any business of yours."

Nerothos gazed down at her contemptuously. The warlock allowed this creature far too long a leash, because, he suspected, she found her antics amusing. Nerothos did not. One day, he would run out of reasons not to snap her slim white neck. But for now…

"I promise you, sayaad, this is not at all like the last time."


	15. Out of the Frying Pan

Azlia tugged sulkily at the hard grip he kept above her elbow, leading him circuitously down through the catacombs below the Hold. She'd been able to answer few of the questions he put to her, fueling his already smouldering ire. Callista had evidently told her minion very little before sending her on this fool's errand.

The air was humid and rank with the compost-smell of decaying vegetation, reminding Nerothos why he ventured here only rarely. After killing the former residents, the Shadow Council had made few alterations to these caves, too far below the surface to see much traffic. They'd cleared the corpses but left most of the plant-life to wither in place as the fel-magic taint seeped into the soil. The result was an earthy reek and a thin brown slime of liquified plant matter that glistened along with the condensation on the walls. Highly unpleasant. Better to have prisoners brought to him instead.

Azlia came to a mulish halt in front of an arched door cut from a single thick slab of oak. He noted with contempt the fuzzy green glow of an Eye of Kilrogg tucked discreetly into one of the many stone fissures near the ceiling. Sayaad were not the only creatures in Jaedenar that could move unseen when they wished. All the warlock's scrying would reveal was her own petulant minion, albeit with her arm crooked at an odd angle as he maintained his grip on her. This close, he could hear the soft murmur of voices filtering through the wood.

He pushed open the door.

A guttering ball of flame near the ceiling illuminated a large messy storeroom. Shelves lined the walls - Nerothos was sure they'd been arranged in no great order beforehand, but he could tell by the dust marks that a number of items had been swept from them hurriedly onto the floor. In the farthest corner slumped the body of a felguard with its hands still locked around the hilt protruding from its chest. The warlock's methods hadn't changed much, he saw.

Two bedraggled human men, one short with a dark mop of hair and one taller and fair, looked up warily as he thrust Azlia ahead of him through the doorway. A dwarf women with one arm in a frayed sling dropped a canvas knapsack back onto a shelf and stared at the succubus.

"Well?" she said.

Callista, who would have sensed the approach of her minion, didn't look up from her seat on the floor, absorbed in lacing one of her boots. She appeared considerably more disheveled than the last time he'd laid eyes on her. Aside from her half-shod state, she was dressed haphazardly in stained leggings and a light tunic that bared her dirty arms, out of keeping with the underground chill. "Did you find any -"

Her absent questioning was interrupted as Nerothos released his grip on Azlia's arm. She immediately skittered away from him towards the warlock, already starting to babble - "I didn't  _want_  to, mistress, he  _made_  me!"

Callista did look up, then, fingers stilling suspiciously on her bootlaces. "What are you -"

Now seemed like an appropriate time to reveal himself. Nerothos dropped his illusion, watching the resulting explosion of movement with callous pleasure.

Callista sprang to her feet with a hiss, the tongue of her unlaced boot flopping open like a startled mouth as flame limned her fingers. Her three companions scrabbled around the cluttered storeroom like rats in their alarm. The curly-haired man uttered a frightened yelp, injured leg buckling as he stumbled back, dragging a shelf's worth of junk down with him as he clutched at it in his fall. Human and trash alike rolled into the feet of the dwarf woman and unbalanced her as she tried to brandish a notched sword at Nerothos, awkwardly wrong-handed. Only the larger blond man seemed marginally in command of himself. The sword he leveled at Nerothos barely wavered, the pearlescent glow of the Light shimmering around the blade. A paladin. He could sense the poisonous burn of the blessing from this distance, but only just - not a very  _good_  paladin.

Nerothos stretched his wings lazily, but made no more aggressive move. His mere presence was threat enough. "Your company has not improved, warlock."

Anxious silence followed his words. It was broken only by the metallic ring of a round belt buckle, dislodged by the dark-haired man's flailing, as it wobbled across the floor and then toppled onto its side.

Startled dismay warred with fear on Callista's face and won.

She didn't dowse her flames, but the fire she'd wrenched from the air subsided to a seething palmful of green embers. For perhaps the first time since he'd known her, she seemed unsure what to say; her eyes briefly narrowed and she tilted her head, taking a deep breath. She actually almost shrugged before her gaze darted sideways to the paladin.

The man looked between the two of them in ignorant confusion. His jaw was tight with resolve beneath his unkempt yellow stubble, sword still pointed at Nerothos' chest, but despite his zeal he seemed to realize that actually attacking him would be suicidal. He wore no armor, only the leather padding that humans were accustomed to don under their plate. None of the mortals were properly dressed, in fact. Prisoners, then. The realization did nothing to assuage Nerothos' anger, only sent it crackling down new paths. He hadn't been informed of any recent captives.

"Stay back!" the paladin warned.

Nerothos ignored him, taking a step closer to Callista as scattered items crunched beneath his hooves. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed again and stayed that way this time, but, paradoxically, the spellfire in her hands ebbed. She splayed her fingers, palms out to show they were empty, then lowered her arms. "Good question," she snapped. "What  _are_  we doing here? Your forces seized us at the edge of Felwood and dragged us off. We had no quarrel with Jaedenar until then."

Nerothos laughed, casting a sardonic look at the gold light rippling from the paladin's blade. "Oh, I very much doubt that."

She followed his gaze, hesitating a moment before switching to Eredun. "Believe me, if I meant to be here I'd have come in through the  _front_  gate," she sneered.

"Not with these, you wouldn't have," he countered in the same tongue. He took another step, almost in arm's reach now, ignoring the way her companion tracked him with the tip of his sword. "Why were you traipsing around Felwood with a company of paladins? What were you hoping to find?"

Despite what most would have considered his alarming proximity, her eyes caught not on him, but on the coruscating point of her companion's sword. It hovered close enough to his elbow that Nerothos could feel its hungry burn on the skin above his bracer. From the misgiving on her face, the warlock seemed to be picturing the inevitable violence should he move it any closer. She shot the paladin a meaningful glance and then raised her hands, spreading her fingers a little in a conciliatory gesture that was only half directed at Nerothos. "You know I'm not lying," she said, still in Eredun. "This has nothing to do with-"

"That's enough!" the paladin said. Keeping his sword trained on Nerothos, he took a halting sideways step towards Callista, as though he meant to interpose himself between them and then thought better of it. It took no special senses to read his uncertainty - his gaze flicked from one of them to the next like a caged bird, lighting almost pleadingly on Callista's face before his mouth hardened again and he looked back to Nerothos. "What are you saying to her? What do you want?"

Fear billowed from him in waves, blood in the water, but he did not quail when Nerothos turned the full weight of his attention on him. A brave enough creature, though not overly burdened with perception. He wondered what sort of lies the warlock had been feeding the poor well-intentioned fool. Paladins rarely had dealings with fel-magic users, and her hands were no cleaner than most.

"It's alright, Aren," Callista said. She turned her head to look at him, but watched Nerothos from the corner of her eye. Wondering if he meant to allow her to salvage this, no doubt.

Nerothos could have refuted her statement in a number of damning ways, but for the moment he chose not to. More entertaining to let whatever facade she'd been weaving unravel on its own.

It didn't take very long. The dwarf woman was less blind than her human compatriot, or at least more willing to see. She slapped her sword back onto a shelf with an abrupt clatter, face shrewd beneath its spangling of bruises and freckles. "Not going to introduce us to your friend, lass?"

Azlia giggled. She'd retreated behind the relative safety of Callista at the start of the conversation, watching the spectacle with one hand on her cocked hip and her whiplike tail flicking avidly. "Ooooh, mistress doesn't tell you  _anything_ , does she?"

"Haven't you said enough today?" Callista spat.

Nerothos smiled companionably at her. "You're well aware of  _my_ thoughts on that," he said, simply to dig her in deeper.

She flayed him with a look, but seemed unwilling to betray any greater familiarity by retorting.

The paladin lowered his sword, finally, though he didn't unclench his fingers from the hilt. Betrayal made a stiff mask of his wholesome farmboy's face. "What is this, Callista? How do you...?" He gestured with his free hand at Nerothos, unable to bring himself to finish his sentence. "Why does this...?"

Callista crinkled her nose in a familiar blend of resignation, guilt and discomfort. He'd seen her look that way before - the warlock had an uncommon knack for convincing people of her essential harmlessness right before plunging them into a situation where no "harmless" response was possible. A useful talent, in Nerothos' opinion, though she'd do better if she stopped growing so fond of the fools she fell in with. Anyone duped so thoroughly deserved no more sympathy than a steer being fattened for slaughter.

"It's not what you think," she said. "I...I had an accident once, very far away. I never imagined any of it would matter. I'll explain everything later, I swear."

Nerothos made an amused sound at that.

The paladin swallowed, shaking his head in denial. He stared at Callista as if she were the walking corpse of someone he once knew, something familiar suddenly grown strange and monstrous. "You didn't think it would  _matter_? Luciel  _died_ , Callista." His voice was a bitter rasp. "Did you know this was going to happen?"

Callista recoiled. "Have you lost your mind? You can't actually think I -"

She winced as the paladin's face contorted, voice shaking with anger. "What am I  _supposed_  to think, Callista! Tell me, please, because I'd love to know. How is this not what it looks like? What explanation do you have that will make this all go away?"

His outburst startled her; she sought the gaze of the dwarf woman but found no sympathy there. The curly-haired man wouldn't even look at her. "Is this really the time to discuss this?" she hissed, flicking a pointed glance at Nerothos.

Nerothos inspected one of his sharp black claws with satiric nonchalance - no need to stop on his account. Though he was still very curious to learn how this pack of idiots had ended up in his cellars, he'd heard enough to convince him their purpose was not a direct threat to Jaedenar. He'd have his answers soon enough. Besides - he found the meteoric pace at which their little alliance was fracturing to be highly diverting.

"My, my, warlock," he said, "what wild fables have you been telling these creatures." He paused a moment, regarding the paladin with a sardonic cant of his head. "You  _have_ discovered she's a warlock. Or has she convinced you that sayaad simply followed her home?"

The man's face colored angrily, but he seemed uncertain how to deal with an enemy who wasn't immediately assaulting him. He wore the bewildered-livestock look of a creature bright enough to realize he was being toyed with, but not quite clever enough to either play the game or upend the table.

He was rescued from his confusion by Callista, who dropped, finally, the flimsy pretense that they weren't familiar with one another. "Did you really come all the way down here just to editorialize?" she snarled.

Nerothos smiled. "Of course not. I came down here to hunt witless trespassers." He eyed the paladin with predatory intent, causing the man's knuckles to pale on his sword hilt. "Shall I continue?"

"That's enough out of all of you!"

The dwarf woman stomped forward to stand next to the paladin, managing to cross her arms sternly despite her sling by tucking her good limb into the crook of her injured one. Her braided hair had come loose, red wisps clinging to her cheeks and sticking from her head at crazed angles. Despite her diminutive size - she only reached the paladin's waist, which meant Nerothos could have stepped on her with no overly-taxing effort - she glared up at the dreadlord with much less fear than her human companion. "I don't know what your business is with Callista - and believe me, lass, we'll have a long hard talk on that later - but since it's clear you don't mean to kill us, you might as well tell us what you want. Why did your goons drag us in here? What have you done with the others?"

Nerothos appreciated pragmatism, even in small misplaced clerics. He was also quite interested in the answers to those questions himself. " _My_  forces had no such orders. Who, precisely, "dragged" you here?"

"I'm no expert in fiends." The dwarf settled a jaded look on Callista. "Well? You were talking to them. Any ideas?"

The warlock squared her shoulders defensively at the way she bit off the words, then shrugged. "Mostly felguards, doomguard captain. Their sigil was strange - some kind of a twisted claw, orange on a purple field." Her gaze sharpened on Nerothos as a new thought struck her. "They mentioned a name. Bethrac, Belathract - something like that. Sound familiar?"

"Beltherac."

Some of his anger must have bled into his tone, because the mortals shifted nervously as the dwarf and the paladin shared a glance.

"Yes, that was it," Callista said. She continued to watch him closely. "They mentioned you, too, now that I think of it. Not friends, I take it."

All at once, this little encounter had ceased to amuse him. "Step outside with me," he said.

She must have caught the warning in his voice, because she hesitated but didn't protest. "Fine," she said.

"Out of the question," the paladin objected. He half raised his sword again - as if he'd dare to use it. "Anything you have to say to her, you can say here. In Common."

The human man, Nerothos decided, must be the leader of this ragged troop. Useful to know. He'd learn how little weight that carried here.

He swept him with a desultory glance, then stepped aside, allowing Callista to exit first. She paused, looking apologetically at the paladin, but he only set his mouth and refused to meet her eyes. Her lip twitched self-mockingly as she pulled open the door and slipped out into the corridor.

Nerothos followed.

The true reason for her swift capitulation became clear as she started in on him almost before the door thudded shut behind them.

"You have no reason to keep us here. We -"

"I have no reason to release you," he cut in. He took a few strides past her into the damp dimness of the hall before turning, requiring her to put her back to the door to face him.

She realized what he was doing too late to gracefully prevent it. Glancing over her shoulder, she gauged the short distance behind her before raising an irritated brow at him -  _really?_

Nerothos didn't care that she knew what he was up to. He was still very much larger than she was. He stalked closer, forcing her to either concede the space or end up with her nose in his chest, only stopping when her back pressed against the wood. He spread his wings and leaned in to enhance the effect, switching to Eredun to deter any eavesdropping from behind the door. "No more evasion. Who are your companions? Why were you clashing with Beltherac's forces?"

He noted the accelerating pulse at her neck, but she did not flinch. For all that a year was a real amount of time to her people, she looked essentially as he remembered - dried blood matted her hair and flecked her chin, but she watched him with the same measuring look even the alcohol on her breath in that goblin port hadn't seemed able to dull. He hadn't been lying that time, when he said he truly hadn't expected her to join him in Jaedenar. Talented established arcanists didn't shackle themselves to the Legion with such little need. But she was mortal still, for all her cleverness...and she meddled so carelessly with so many things that could hurt her so very badly. One day, she might find herself outmatched...and then she would remember.

But for now, they were not truly allies, whatever they'd been before.

She sighed and made to edge around him, but he pushed a clawed hand against the door, trapping her in front of him.

Her lip curled, then. "If that's how you want to play it." Her demonic bore only the faintest trace of a Stormwind accent - at one time, she'd had a great deal of practice.

" _You_  precipitated this, not me." He squeezed his claws into the door, drawing a woody screech from its surface close to her ear. "If I need to question your companions, I won't be so civil."

"Is that what we're being?" She turned her head to study his hand, then twisted it away from the noise as he gouged the wood with his claws again. "For Light's sake, demon!" she snapped with no apparent irony.

She wasn't entirely as unaffected as she pretended - beneath her ire, he could sense a delicate trickle of apprehension. All the same, she neither answered his questions nor tried to move away from him again. Instead she pursed her lips and examined him, eyes sharp and inscrutable as smoked glass. Just as he leaned even closer to speak again, to threaten or cajole, he hadn't decided which, a ripple of annoyance passed over her features.

"Oh, Twisting Nether, this is pointless," she breathed. "You want the truth? Fine. I'd have told you earlier, but you seemed so deeply invested in padding my treason charges."

He laughed, unrepentant. "I'm sure you'll salve your clerics' wounded sensibilities well enough later. You always do seem to manage."

Her eyes narrowed, but he tightened his claws against the wood again, the sound forestalling her words.

"Go on," he said, inclining his head but making no move to un-corral her from the door.

She sighed again in irritation, but decided against prolonging the argument. "This was an Argent Dawn expedition," she said.

The wood creaked again - accidentally this time, as Nerothos eased his weight from the arm penning her in.

It was still one provocation too many. Callista's eyes slid to the side, sizing up his claws before she abruptly seized his bracer near the wrist. No spell burned in her hand - she simply tightened her fingers on the metal and watched him, inviting a reaction. When she didn't get one - aside from a noncommittal flex of his wings - she pulled, dragging his arm downwards away from her ear.

He dug his claws in enough that the wood continued its protesting squeal, but let her pry his hand from the door, satisfied he'd made his point. Few creatures would have dared, but the warlock had never let whatever fear or disgust she might feel for him get in the way of her pique. Though he noticed her hand didn't stray from his armor this time.

"We were looking for a human settlement that disappeared at the edge of Felwood a few years ago," she said, rubbing a knuckle into her ear but otherwise continuing as if nothing unusual had happened. "And before you start...no, I haven't joined the Dawn. They conscripted me, part of the general demon panic in Stormwind."

Nerothos clucked his tongue, contemptuous. "Pressganged like an illiterate pickpocket, yet here you still are, defending their soldiers. Such dedication to a realm that lets you fight its wars only so you might die in them."

She crossed her arms and settled back against the door. There was still tension in the way her fingertips pressed into her elbows, but she'd relaxed a little now that his claws were an acceptable distance from her face. "Oh, don't be dramatic. I was careless and paid for it.  _You_ should understand that."

_"My_ people don't consider me an embarrassing necessity."

"Remind me to ask the next eredar I meet if that's true."

"The eredar know their role." This was not the topic he'd meant to engage on; he yanked the conversation back to relevance. "What sort of settlement?"

She quirked a lip at his unabashed non-segue, but answered anyway. "Refugees from old Lordaeron, not that it matters. We never got near the place. We'd barely entered the forest when a company of felguards found us - an ambush near a fallen tree. They must have used it before, because they had a tunnel. It didn't strike me as a simple patrol to secure the borders. They were too eager to capture prisoners. You really had no idea about this?"

He hadn't, in fact, had any idea - none of what she'd recounted had been done at his behest - but Nerothos did not admit ignorance unless strictly necessary. "What happened next?"

The skin around her eyes tightened speculatively, but after a moment she continued. "There should have been two more of us in your cells. A draenei and another human man. I...when they caught us, I tried to persuade their captain that I was a Shadow Council agent. He didn't believe me, not really, but I must've made him nervous enough to try to hedge. They took two of our party...somewhere, to some project of Beltherac's, I suppose, the guards didn't know - and left the rest here to see if anyone important started asking uncomfortable questions."

Nerothos did not visibly react, but there were several aspects to her tale he found deeply concerning. How he could be unaware of prisoners brought to his own dungeon, for one. Beltherac's penchant for collecting unfortunate mortals was less interesting to him than the fact he felt the need to hide it from Jaedenar. It made little sense - Banehollow would have happily provided him with any of their more worthless captives, even if his aim were only his own idle amusement. He must have been disposing of them in some way that the Shadow Council would not approve - but that made even less sense. He responded to Callista automatically, before she could read into his hesitation. "Which of course no one did, so you murdered your guards and escaped before they discovered you were both insignificant  _and_ a liar."

She laughed quietly. "When you put it that way, it sounds much less admirable." Her expression quickly sobered. "Who is this other demon? What has he done with Vorthaal and Nathanial?"

Both excellent questions. "Beltherac is not your primary complication," he sneered.

His attempt at deflection failed. She cocked her head, uncrossing her arms. "You actually don't know, do you?" Her eyes searched his face, sharp with suspicion. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it? What is it?"

Distantly, too soft yet for blunt human ears, he could hear the tramp of armored boots. "Touching as this misaimed concern is…"

She dismissed his deliberate misinterpretation with a snort. Having found a line of reasoning she liked, she pursued it with dogged and irritating accuracy. "How long were you on Xoroth before we found you, I wonder. Power  _does_ hate a void."

Nerothos was not in the mood for her arrogant over-shrewd guessing. He draped his wings forward to cage her more obviously against the door, relishing the startled twitch of her skin as their leathery edges brushed her arms. His shadow darkened her face, only partly the cause of the wary dilation of her pupils. "Such disproportionate interest in my affairs from a creature whose back is so literally to the wall."

She was not as inured to his presence as she'd once been. But after the barest heartbeat of hesitation she smiled - insincerely, without showing her teeth. "Someone been poaching on your lawn, demon?"

The sound of iron-shod feet echoed unmistakably off the stone. He felt her tense, her smug look fading as she glanced in the direction of the noise.

Nerothos laughed unpleasantly, withdrawing his wings. "I did warn you…"

One of the patrols assigned to this level jogged down the cave-like hall, stopping short with a gruff exclamation. Four felguards and a rangy orc whose name Nerothos could not recall, the latter clad in a battered coat of splintmail. The orc's broad face slackened in fear at the sight of him.

"Lost something, have we?" Nerothos said.

The orc's eyes darted to Callista. Despite her unease, she still managed a sarcastic little wave of her fingers.

"Sir!" the orc said, snapping his attention back to Nerothos and banging his fist against his chest in salute. "I see you, uh, found the prisoner. She...er...all the guards were dead, we didn't-"

"Was she alone?" he asked, studying the orc's sweating face the way he might a beetle he was considering impaling.

The orc looked at Callista again, tusked mouth working nervously. She widened her eyes at him - no help there. It was obvious even to this ineffectual peon that the question was loaded. Fortunately for his ill-favored green hide, he made no attempt to lie.

"Sir...I, uh, there were no records, but four of the cells were open."

"Good answer," Nerothos said. He would send Gurzon down later to take a thorough accounting of the prisoners here. This creature wouldn't enjoy his reward for his role in this negligence, but if he snapped the neck of every incompetent mortal in Jaedenar, he'd hardly have a city left to rule.

The relieved rise and fall of the orc's chest was visible even beneath his mail. He jabbed a thick finger at Callista, teeth bared with dislike for the cause of his angst. "What should we do with  _her_?"

The warlock scowled.

Nerothos stretched his wings to their full span and then folded them comfortably. He paused for longer than his consideration required, savoring her uncertainty after her earlier needling.

After a moment she faltered, eyes drawn to his face.

His smile did not appear to reassure her in the slightest. She didn't trust him. How tragic. "Do nothing," he said. Then, to her: "You are free. To leave...or to bargain, as you prefer."

Surprise and distrust passed over her face like shadows. Her shoulders did not relax. "What about the others?"

Instead of answering, he delivered the order to the guards. "The other three prisoners are inside. Bind them and have them brought to the upper chambers. If they escape again, best ensure it's over your corpses."

The orc nodded curtly. If he found any part of these orders strange, he wasn't imprudent enough to show it. "As you command."

"Really?" Callista hissed. "At least let me talk to them first!" Her eyes flitted around the damp walls of the corridor, as if she were considering bolting, or squeezing herself into one of the crevices. Unfortunately for her, no convenient gap presented itself. How would it look, after all? Standing passively with their enemies as her luckless friends were marched off in chains to an unknown fate. She did not flee, however. As Nerothos knew she wouldn't - it was the only reason he'd offered a choice at all. Despite her duplicity and her careless handling of power, she understood loyalty, still.

Nerothos laughed, enjoying her helpless frustration. "You shouldn't concern yourself so desperately with appearances, warlock. I'm sure your companions won't jump to any unwholesome conclusions. After all, if there's one thing I associate with your paladins, it's nuanced reason."

Her glare was poisonous enough to stop the blood of a less hardy creature. Nerothos absorbed it with satisfaction as the orc and his guards shouldered past her.

* * *

This was by far the most backhanded favor she'd ever been done.

Callista reached a hand toward the deadbolt then pulled it back uncertainly. The felguards stationed beside the door ignored her, eyes staring fixedly ahead beneath the dark metal of their helms. Nerothos hadn't been lying when he said she was free to leave if she chose. But then, he hardly needed guards to keep her here now, did he?

She cursed under her breath, ears straining to hear any words coming from the other side of the wood. In hindsight, she realized that she hadn't handled this very well. She'd known encountering Nerothos was a possibility, but she hadn't expected him to personally accost her entire party like that. She'd forgotten how aggravating he was when he had the upper hand. Shouldn't he have had better things to do than demolishing her credibility and clawing up the decor like Sargeras' own outsized housecat?

Apparently not.

Callista did not like being blindsided. Azlia had better have a  _very_  excellent explanation, or she'd be scrubbing down the waterclosets in the Slaughtered Lamb until Callista was too old to remember why she'd put her there.

That wouldn't help her now, though.

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, eyeing the iron-braced planks of the door. Waiting would only give her friends more time to think about what had just happened.

Putting a hand to the deadbolt again, she called softly through the wood - "It's me" - before sliding the lock back and easing open the door.

Only silence greeted her.

Ander lay stretched on one of the straw-stuffed pallets at the back of the room, staring listlessly at the cracked stone ceiling with Wynda sitting cross-legged near his feet. Aren stilled his pacing to watch her enter. He no longer looked angry; only wan and bloodied and very very tired.

The bolt clanked home as one of the guards shut the door behind her.

Still no one spoke.

Callista glanced around uncomfortably, unsure how to begin to explain herself.

At least this room looked more pleasant than their last accommodations. The walls were closely-fitted stone, but torches blazed in the sconces and a meagre assortment of rickety furniture had been shoved into one of the corners. Clearly this wasn't intended to be any kind of long-term holding cell. It seemed as though the guards had simply tossed them into the nearest unoccupied room. That boded well, maybe.

She moistened her lips with her tongue, still struggling to untangle the silence. It seemed to have grown a weight and texture of its own, filled with invisible things that nevertheless could wound. Words usually came so easily to her. "I swear, I wasn't involved in any of this," she said, hating the lack of conviction in her own voice.

Her speech had been directed at Aren, but he only continued to watch her - or rather, he continued to watch the empty patch of air over her right shoulder, as though he couldn't quite stand to look at her - broad shoulders slumped and face tightly drawn.

Ander answered instead, without breaking his stare at the ceiling. "That would be a lot easier to believe if they'd tried to tie  _you_ up like a roast."

Wynda rested her uninjured forearm on her knee, leaning over it to watch her with frank green eyes. "We're not fools, lass," she said. "We know that fiend was painting as ugly a scene as he could. But he didn't have to invent much, did he?"

Callista sighed. If she'd decided on honesty, she might as well commit to it, unpleasant as it was likely to be. Wynda had asked the question, but she steadied her gaze on Aren, willing him to believe her. She almost wished he'd start accusing her again; somehow, that had stung less than this hollow silence. "No," she said, "he didn't. He…we've met before, yes, but not for any of the reasons you might think. I...had an accident with a summoning spell, a little over a year ago. I ended up...off-world, somewhere very unpleasant."

"Draenor?" Wynda asked.

Callista hesitated. "No," she said. Haltingly, she sketched them a sanitized version of her attempt to summon a dreadsteed and the sequence of disasters that followed. It was a true account, in a broad sense; and if she'd left out a few of the uglier details, or that the demon had found her afterward and what he'd offered her...well. The omissions may not have been strictly honest, but some truths were even more misleading than lies. She wasn't in league with Nerothos now; that was all that mattered.

"And that was the end of it," she finished up finally. "He must have recognized Azlia. It's the only way he could have known I was here."

Ander had sat up halfway through her tale, hugging his unbloodied leg and resting his chin on his knee. "That's the craziest thing I've ever heard," he said, torn between skepticism and admiration.

Callista grimaced. "Believe me, I know. If I were lying, I'd have come up with something much easier to swallow."

Aren had listened with an air of close attention, but his shuttered expression didn't soften. Tiny lines gathered at the corners of his eyes; she'd never noticed them before, but the exhaustion carved on his face made her conscience jab her even harder. "Even if that's true," he said, "why would the dreadlord let you go now? Demons aren't known for their sense of gratitude."

"No, they aren't. He wants something, I just don't know what it is yet." Though she could hazard a few guesses. She tilted her head, squinting thoughtfully. "It's hard to tell with Nerothos, but he genuinely didn't seem to know why we'd been brought here. He clearly isn't fond of that Beltherac creature, either."

Aren just sighed, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. "Callista, how are we supposed to trust you?"

That was the fairest question she was never prepared to answer. She dropped her eyes, pulling up one side of her mouth unhappily. For all the times it had been asked of her, she'd yet to find a satisfactory reply. In her more self-recriminating moments, she wondered if there was one at all. "I told you the truth," she said heavily. "I don't know what else you're looking for."

He exhaled again, tired and disbelieving. "You told us the truth because you had no choice. Why didn't you say something sooner?"

She gave a short laugh. "Were you listening to everything I just told you? How do you segue into  _that_? And even if I had, what good would it have done? People barely tolerate warlocks as it is. Somehow I doubt leading with the story of that one time the Shadow Council wasn't  _so_ bad would win me many friends. A hammer in the gut, maybe."

His mouth flattened into a hard line. "I told you weeks ago that we were going into Felwood.  _That_  was your opening, and you didn't mention  _any_  of this."

She knew she shouldn't have been sarcastic - Aren was thinner-skinned than most of the people she fought like this with - but Callista was beginning to be irritated herself, now. She understood how suspicious this looked; truly, she did. But, for once in her life, she sincerely hadn't  _done_  anything. Except, of course, be beaten, drugged, and imprisoned by demons because she'd been too foolishly softhearted to part ways with these people when she had the chance. And they were so furious with her...why? Because while fleeing a Legion stronghold, they'd encountered a dreadlord and he  _didn't_ try to kill them?

"Yes, you did tell me that," Callista agreed darkly. "And I told  _you_ it was dangerous, full of demons, and a terrible idea. What else was there to say? Besides, in case you've forgotten, I didn't exactly volunteer for this little mission."

He shook his head, finally looking her full in the face. Mistrust frosted his usually warm brown eyes. "No, I didn't forget. I also didn't forget how you never really answered when I asked you why you were still here anyway."

And there it was; the crux of the matter.

She let the silence linger for a long breath, already bitterly regretting whatever was about to come next, acutely aware of Wynda suddenly joining Ander in his intent contemplation of the chairs piled in the corner. "You know why I'm here," she said softly.

"I thought I did."

She'd braced herself for that, but was startled to find that the blow still ached, in a way she hadn't believed he'd been able to reach her. Callista scrunched up her nose in disgust, actually angry now, at him and at her own lapse in defenses. For a moment, she'd let herself believe...it didn't matter now. "Oh, for - if I were really a Legion agent,  _why did I let you out of your cells_?"

Aren's face crumpled as he quietly failed to meet her eyes. "I don't know."

Incredibly, he somehow managed to look even more miserable than Callista felt. It made it impossible say any of the words burning in her throat.

"Twisting Nether," she hissed instead, stalking over to the pallet on the other side of Wynda and Ander and throwing herself down on it.

"Uh," Ander said tentatively, waggling a hand for attention. "Not to distract us all from ripping the head off our warlock - which, don't get me wrong, she definitely deserves, I mean, a dreadlord, _really_? Couldn't you have found a nice murderer, or maybe one of those snake monsters that keep strangling people off the coast of Darnassus - anyway, uh, not to get off topic, but what's going to happen to us now?"

"Well, I'm guessing that fiend doesn't mean to shake our hands and send us on our way," Wynda said dryly.

Callista had folded herself onto the pallet with the full intention of brooding silently against the wall, but she noticed, much to her irritation, that they were all staring at her again.  _Which is it?_  she could have snapped.  _If I'm such a traitor, why turn to me at all?_

In the end, she only sighed. "I don't know," she said. "None of us are worth much as prisoners. Nerothos will find some use for us, I'm sure, though I doubt you'll like whatever price he sets on your release."

"It doesn't matter," Aren said. He would not look at her, but she could still read the anger in the bunched muscles of his jaw. "We do not bargain with the Burning Legion."

"Oh, no?" Callista said. Her resentment had not cooled - easy for him to cast judgment on her decisions, when he'd never been trapped in that vice, himself. "Well, then, since you've been so concerned about my honesty lately, let me come clean now. The list of things I'm willing to die for is very very short. And the Argent Dawn's glittering principles are nowhere on it."

"It's not for me to judge another's conscience," Aren said stonily.

Nether, if he were anyone else, she'd think he was riling her on purpose. Callista hated platitudes; insults rolled off her like water, but at least have an original thought about it. She knew she should bite her tongue before she said something (even more) regrettable, but couldn't quite manage. "Yes, the Light will get its crack at me eventually," she sneered. "But I bet it won't be today."

The rawness on his face only stirred her already queasy guilt.

* * *

Aren picked halfheartedly at the crumbs of hard cheese still stuck to the rind in his hand. Callista's demoness had interrupted the unpleasant silence that followed their argument, returning from her foray into the town that evidently existed outside this Legion pit with a haphazard collection of cured goods, weak beer, and sweet wrinkled apples that Callista assured them were free of demonic taint.

The succubus had delivered her basket of food demurely enough, then draped herself across the foot of the straw pallet Callista had settled on, preening under Ander's admiring stare. She was a lithe smooth-skinned creature, clad in a hardly-decent leather...something (it certainly didn't qualify as armor) that bared a long expanse of sleek purple-patterned thigh and a very generous swath of cleavage.

After his first irresistible gawk, Aren deliberately looked anywhere else. Not only out of propriety; he found that he did not like the sight of the demon, despite her beauty. It wasn't just her claws and oddly insectoid leg spines that ultimately repulsed him - something about the insistence of the desire he couldn't deny she woke in him seemed shadowy and false, and he found the mix of attraction and revulsion to be deeply discomfiting.

Fortunately, he didn't feel much like looking at Callista right now either, which made avoiding that entire portion of the room that much easier. Instead, he continued to silently shred the waxy cheese rind, not sure if the unease in his belly was from the unaccustomed richness of the food or simple anxiety and discontent.

What would become of them?

Where were Nathanial and Vorthaal? Was rescuing them even possible?

More immediately, what was he to do with Callista?

He dug a short nail into the rind, frustrated.

In his heart, he did not truly believe she'd betrayed them. But his heart, he was beginning miserably to suspect, was a compass moved by forces other than a true judgment of character. Any reasons he collected to either defend her or condemn were wound up too tightly with the memory of her skin; the feel of her laugh as she buried her face against his neck.

What stung the most wasn't even how much she'd hid from him (though that hurt, too) but how poorly her tale matched what he thought he knew of her. He'd wanted so badly to believe she was no more than what she seemed: a willful, clever woman whose curiosity occasionally overwhelmed her better nature, but who would choose well when it mattered. She'd chosen him, after all. But now...

He suspected now that the glibly ruthless things she sometimes said weren't only to shock her companions into amusement. Beneath the teasing words and the quick smile, she might actually be capable of them. The thought settled in his gut like icy water. He hadn't forgotten the perfunctory way she'd disposed of that felguard. And no matter how sincerely she insisted whatever alliance she'd made with that dreadlord was over, the demon himself seemed to have a different idea. What sort of temperament, he wondered, brutally twisting the knife in his own wounds, did it take to not only strike a bargain with a Legion commander, but also to conclude it so amicably that he'd show her leniency afterward?

He stared at the crumbled palmful of wax he'd made of the rind without really seeing it.

What a fool he'd been. And in the end, he had only himself to blame. She'd lied, but he was the one who'd fastened the blinders on his own wiser instincts. He'd known she was keeping something back, and instead of looking closer, he'd looked away.

It would not happen again.

"Muradin's beard, lad, quit staring like that or your eyes will stick that way," Wynda said.

Jostled from his musings, Aren looked up to see Ander sitting on the pallet next to Callista's with his chin in his palm, gazing raptly into the center of the succubus' breasts. His fascination was almost understandable. The neckline of the woman's -  _demon's_  - top was shaped like clawed hands, offering her up in a way that -

Aren glanced swiftly away.

"Shhhh. Don't distract me," Ander muttered, completely unchastened. "If we're going to die here, I want this to be the last thing I see."

Callista unsuccessfully stifled a laugh, letting out a choked snort.

The succubus curled her pink tongue over one of her fangs, favoring Ander with a smile. "Mmmmm, I like  _you_ ," she said, leaning over in way that threatened to spill her totally out of her corset.

Wynda shook her head in exasperation, prodding Ander's leg with her boot in an effort to disrupt his stare. "Instead of snickering over there, couldn't you conjure that creature the rest of her shirt?" she grumbled at Callista.

"We could always trade," the succubus said with a sultry giggle, sliding her gaze down Wynda's front.

Wynda endured the creature's leer with her usual unshakable tolerance. "Save it for the fiends outside."

Azlia tossed her glossy black hair contemptuously. "Guards are boring. Paladins are boring. That dreadlord is boring. Can we leave yet, mistress?" She rested her horned head against Callista's knee, looking up at her with fawning eyes. "Xavilis' sect is in town. I bet he'll - "

The door slammed open and banged against the wall, interrupting the demon's simpering.

Aren stiffened, hands clenching into fists. One of the felguards stood in the portal; a hulking, glowering mass of armored muscle. He pointed at Aren and Callista in turn, addressing them in heavily-accented Common. "You and you, come with me," he said.


	16. Ultimatum

The felguards hauling on his arms paused before a door incongruously carved with owls and twining branches. One of them rapped it hard with his knuckles before pulling it open and bullying Aren and Callista inside.

Aren had steeled himself for the sight of an interrogation chamber - worn restraints and gleaming implements, the reek of stale sweat and old blood - but this room looked more like a night-elven command post than a place of torture. The ceiling was high and vaguely domed, supported by a lattice of thick polished tree roots instead of beams. Lanterns hung from them like enchanted fruit, shedding silvery light on the annotated maps of Felwood and the surrounding lands that papered the walls.

It would have been a pleasant enough chamber - except for the demon that dominated its center.

Nerothos ignored their entrance from the other side of a massive darkwood table, studying a scatter of documents written in an unfamiliar script. Even motionless, his form seemed to promise violence. His wings shaded the table's polished surface, half-spread, like a hunting hawk's, and the parchment threw his wicked claws into stark prominence.

Aren swallowed, unable to suppress the animal fear that clenched his gut as his guards marched him forward. Images from his first sight of a dreadlord rose like phantoms before his inner eye - night and the driving rain, corpses stooped over a twitching body amid the jagged stalks of last year's corn, the winged shadow directing their progress with cold amusement - he suppressed the memory with a shudder. Lordaeron was dead. But one of the lessons of its cataclysm was that demons were not as invincible as they pretended.

He forced his gaze onto Nerothos, alert to any clue to his intentions. At a glance, he looked a little like the doomguard who'd captured them. Both demons had cloven hooves, backswept horns, and leathery batlike wings, though the dreadlord was slightly less massive. But where the doomguard's features had been square and brutish, almost bestial, Nerothos' aquiline, not-quite human face was alive with intelligence.

He wished, suddenly, that he hadn't lost his temper with Callista. Angry and blindsided as he'd been - as he still felt - he should have controlled himself better. She had information that might have helped them. And, more importantly, they all needed to be on the same side to have any hope of surviving this. He'd as much as told her she was on her own, and he wondered uncomfortably what she might do now.

The felguards released his arms and withdrew to either side of the entrance, leaving him adrift in the middle of the flagstoned floor. A few chairs - shaped from living wood, in the kaldorei fashion - sat at careless angles on their side of the table's gleaming expanse, but Aren would not have taken one any more than he would have offered the dreadlord a handshake. Instead, he resisted the urge to rub where the felguards' claws had gouged, straightening his back in an effort to look unintimidated.

Nerothos perused one of his documents for a moment longer before looking up, studying the two mortals with the same merciless intensity he had the writing on the page pinned beneath his talons.

Aren had resolved not be cowed, but found he couldn't meet that burning gaze for long. Rather than drop his eyes, he looked to his right under the pretense of checking what Callista was making of all of this. He was annoyed to find her thumbing a streak of dirt from her wrist with a casualness that had to be feigned, neither acknowledging his look nor paying any attention to their captor.

"Tell me, paladin."

Aren's focus snapped nervously back to the dreadlord. Unlike that of most of the demons they'd encountered so far, Nerothos' speech was flawless, though his voice was too dark and resonant to ever be mistaken for anything human. An unnatural felfire glow lit his eyes, though the most unpleasant thing about them was their expression: coldly curious, as though Aren were some foreign trinket he hadn't discovered the use of yet and whose main diversion might still lay in its dismantling.

He smiled. "Do you imagine yourself my enemy?"

Of course you're my enemy, was the instinctive response that Aren swallowed. Callista may have been comfortable blurring the line between adversary and dangerous acquaintance with this creature, but there were some things Aren still knew to be true. You could not bargain honorably with demons. Their promises were broken before they were uttered and anything real they offered was never worth its price in misery and blood. He owed Wynda and Ander and the others still alive to do what he could to protect them. He understood, too, that life was often lived in a murky borderland much different than the black and white clarity of his faith. Even so, he'd taken other oaths and would not break them. He could never forget who the true authors of the Scourge had been. "I will not negotiate with demons. You've already killed enough of my people. I won't help you harm any more."

He braced himself for anger at his defiance, but Nerothos only tilted his horned head, gaze sharpening with interest. He'd thought the dreadlord unsettling before, but the full weight of his attention struck him with the force of a cleaver into a side of meat. There was something worse in it than the petty malice he was used to, by now, from other demons: a methodical dissection of everything from his accent to the bloodstains on his leathers, the traitorous twitch of his cheek as he struggled to keep his face impassive; as though Nerothos were reading past the surface texture of those things into what lay beneath and finding only more fuel for his scorn. "So," he said, after what felt like an age but was only the span of a few heartbeats. "You are from Lordaeron. I resided there once, myself. Though I'm sure we remember it rather differently."

Aren stiffened, his own nails digging into his palms. Of course the demon had been there. He didn't want to know what sort of atrocities he'd committed in the Scourge's wake. Better to give him as little as possible to use, only stare impassively ahead the way he'd been taught to handle interrogations and try to end this farce quickly. "What do you want?" he asked. "Where have you taken the others?"

Contempt hardened Nerothos' cruelly chiseled features, and he clucked his tongue in mock disappointment. "You haven't been paying attention." His gaze shifted to something to the right of Aren's shoulder. "Since you're still here, I assumed you would have explained this to him."

Callista glanced up from inspecting a scrape on the back of her hand, actually managing to look annoyed at being addressed. She'd been so uncharacteristically silent that Aren had almost forgotten she was in the room at all. "I did try. But he wasn't particularly interested in anything I had to say. I'm sure you can't imagine why."

Nerothos' eyes raked across Aren again, a more cursory blow than the last evisceration. "This one does have an usually poor grasp on his circumstances."

Aren knew better than to let a demon's remarks get under his skin. He still found himself stung. Not at Nerothos' words, so much as at Callista's response - instead of defending him, or even ignoring the jab, she actually drew up one corner of her mouth and shrugged.

All the feelings of betrayal he'd been trying to reason away broke over him like a wave. He didn't care how angry at him she was - for Light's sake, a forced audience with the Burning Legion was no place to be airing personal grievances. And yet there she stood - dirt and blood from this fiend's dungeon still speckling her bare arms - studying the maps on the wall with more interest than the fraught conversation going on in front of her, as though this were a stranger's affair she was only accidentally privy to and faintly embarrassed to witness.

"I understand everything I need to know about this," Aren said, biting the words off before he could stop himself.

"How distressing that I believe you mean that," Nerothos drawled. "Alas, sincerity is a less useful basis for negotiation than reality." He sneered, revealing an alarming glimpse of fangs. "The last feeble dregs of the Silver Hand pose no threat to Jaedenar. If I were to execute you now, I do not believe I would suffer any consequence at all."

Aren froze, unsure how to respond. Bravado was worthless, and he would not beg. Loathing for the creature in front of him boiled up so hard he could taste it in the back of his throat. Bad enough that he'd failed - failed in his mission, failed to keep his people alive - bad enough that he was powerless to protect the ones who were left. It was the humiliation of being toyed with that infuriated him. Nerothos had never even set out to thwart them; they'd simply dropped into his lap, and now he batted them about like a nightsaber would a wounded rabbit. Even his threats held as much mockery as genuine menace. And Callista standing there, dispassionately watching the whole thing, only made it so much worse.

What would she do, he wondered, if the demon ordered his throat cut. Would she intervene? Would she attack the guards, maybe even that smug monstrosity on the other side of the table? Or would she continue to do nothing, watch coolly like a bored noblewoman at an underwhelming art gallery as the blades were drawn?

Nerothos seemed content to wait for him to speak. Even the silvery lantern-light looked false beneath that inhuman regard. Aren's desire to curse the demon to the void and have done with it was overwhelming...but that would damn his friends as well. A nauseating glaze of unreality settled on the room as he tried to sift a miracle from his racing thoughts. More deaths to lay at his feet, to join Luciel's and so many nameless others. And yet he would not - could not - bow to the Shadow Council. He prayed for wisdom, but heard only the roaring of blood in his ears.

Movement at the corner of his eye disturbed his overwrought senses, but it was only Callista, stirring herself, finally, and darting him an alarmed sideways glance. Or perhaps he was mistaken, because she looked away almost before he could register the expression. Her face had smoothed by the time she returned to examining the dreadlord, her finely-boned features as carefully composed as an oil painting.

"Is there a point buried under all this preamble?" she said.

Nerothos pierced Aren with his gaze for a moment longer - he had the distinct sense that the demon was aware of his fear and his self-recrimination, and was amused by both - before shifting his attention, mercifully, to Callista.

"Always," he said.

Aren tensed, readying himself for the demon to try to make good on his earlier threat. But rather than motioning to the guards, Nerothos only stretched his wings before slackening them against his back, an oddly complaisant gesture. "For reasons I find increasingly mystifying, you want to keep this fool and his addled charges alive."

Callista put her head to one side and looked at him, with that particular blend of curiosity and irritation that meant she suspected he was being difficult on purpose. It was an expression Aren found intimately familiar, though jarring to see it leveled at an enemy. To his discomfort, she approached the demon to a more conversational distance, putting her hands on the gnarled back of one of the chairs. "What part of this is mystifying to you, exactly? At some point, I'd like to go home again. And how will it look if the only member of this party that returns is the warlock they conscripted."

The cruel line of Nerothos' mouth curved. "Indeed. Fortunately for you, our goals coincide. You want to find your missing companions. I am inclined to allow your search."

"And the catch is..."

"I want to know where they've been taken, and for what purpose."

The surface innocence of his demand unbalanced Aren almost as much as the abrupt thaw in his manner. "That can't be all," he said.

He'd deliberately raised his voice, suddenly realizing how Callista's new position near the table had separated him from the conversation, but the anemic way his words tumbled into the space made him wish he could snatch them back.

Even in the moment, he realized the thought was ridiculous. He hadn't spoken out of turn; there was no way he even could, in a chamber where the only other occupants were demons and a warlock of dubious allegience. And yet he still couldn't help feeling the way he once had as a young man, thoughtlessly blurting out a remark in front of a visiting delegation from Stormwind.

Nerothos swept him with his gaze almost incidentally. He rested the green coals of his eyes on him for the precise fraction of a second necessary to prove that the snub was not an accident, before returning his attention to Callista.

She didn't look at Aren at all, though the skin around her eyes tightened briefly as she leaned forward over the back of the chair. "He has a point, demon. What do you think's happened to them that's so interesting?"

Nerothos' claws clicked against the wood as he braced his hands on the table in a sinister mirror of her posture. "Nothing pleasant, I'm sure."

The dual dismissal burned. Especially from Callista, who was too sensitive to nuance not to realize that she'd cut him out. Aren knew he should say something - anything - to assert himself, but the combined weight of the dreadlord's contempt and his lover's disinterest withered the words in his throat.

Callista scoffed, either unperturbed by Nerothos' looming or confident in the dark-grained width of the table. The contrast between them should have made her look small - the demon's black-armored bulk opposite a thin human in a bedraggled tunic - but Callista had a way of holding herself that convinced an onlooker that wherever she happened to be was exactly where she belonged. Which was probably why, Aren thought with acrid frustration, she never got boxed out of arguments that were happening right in front of her.

"Fine. Let's try again," she said. "This Beltherac creature. What is he? If he's no ally of yours, what's he doing in Felwood?"

Nerothos removed his hands from the table, the blood-colored gems in his wrist-guards glinting with the movement. "Beltherac is nathrezim. And his aim is the same as all of ours' in this wretched forest: to consolidate power."

Callista scrunched up her face. "Of course it is." She walked around to the front of the chair, dropping into it and peering balefully at him around the two fingers rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Do you have any hobbies that don't involve finding the meanest creature you can lay your hands on and twisting his ears?"

A prickling heat spread through his palm, and Aren was startled to find that he'd been crossing his arms so tightly that the fingers of his left hand had gone numb. This caustic civility unnerved him even more than the dreadlord's threats.

Because, it dawned on him with anger too well-tread to hold any real fire, he was certain that Callista had been lying. Again.

Nerothos seemed to find nothing odd about his prisoner slouching on the furniture, only furthering Aren's conviction. "I fail to see the aim of your grousing. My 'hobbies' have served you well enough in the past."

The sour look she shot him between her fingers contradicted that.

Aren had no way of verifying what she'd told them about her prior dealings with Nerothos, and he probably never would. But while he found it painfully clear that he didn't know Callista as well as he'd thought, he was very sure this was not the way she'd treat a barely-tolerated adversary whose last confirmed act had been gutting one of her companions. She was not nearly wary enough of him for that.

"Would you prefer I demand the corpses of some arbitrary number of kaldorei?"

"I'm not sure," Callista said spitefully. Then she glanced at Aren, as though suddenly remembering his presence, and seemed to relent. "Alright," she said with a disgusted shake of her head. "Fine. Let's pretend for a moment I've gone utterly mad and decided to insert myself in Jaedenar politics. What do you expect me to do? Beltherac will know me for a liar after five words in his presence - or at least you always seem to."

"It is unlikely you would be able to deceive him," Nerothos agreed. "If you are wise, you'll avoid him altogether. Fortunately for you, he's acquired a number of human followers you should have no trouble insinuating yourself among."

"'Followers'?" she echoed doubtfully. She grimaced as though the word tasted foul. "Please tell me this doesn't involve chasing around some demented pack of cultists."

He inclined his head, amused at her displeasure. "They call themselves the Convocation of Souls, though their tenets appear to be taken from a schismatic branch of the Cult of Forgotten Shadow."

She muttered something under her breath.

Nerothos laughed. "And here I'd thought you'd developed a taste for the company of pious fools."

Aren only half-listened, determined to use the respite he'd gained by being ignored. If Callista was lying, did it even matter anymore? (It did, a still sore part of him insisted, it mattered intensely, and yet…) Whatever her intentions, the reality remained the same. They were prisoners of the Shadow Council.

Mad plans bloomed and burst in his head like garish soap bubbles. He could grab a weapon from the guards, try to free the others; attack the dreadlord and force Callista's hand (even now, he could not really believe she was wholly in his pocket) - but despite their wildness, a clinging lethargy numbed his thoughts. He knew his desperate fantasies for what they were. No escape was possible, now. They would either submit, or be executed. And much as Callista's arrogant amoral bartering infuriated and dismayed him, it had a seductive draw, as well. The cowardly relief of abdication...he was sick of finding himself at fault. Why not simply surrender? Let her play the dreadlord's game and do his best to temper the damage, rather than exhausting himself in a battle he could only lose. Whatever happened next would be on her head, not his. And besides...he did not want to die.

But did he truly love his own life enough to find common cause with the Burning Legion?

His revulsion at serving a demon's ends, in however small a way, even as the price of survival for him and those in his care, was so strong that it briefly flung his thoughts clear of their tangling doubts. This was how good men committed terrible sins.

Nerothos flapped his wings once, contemplatively, the sharp flutter of shadows startling Aren from his brooding. "You understand what I require of you?"

Callista made a loose circular motion with her finger. "Investigate this cult. Find out what Beltherac is up to, particularly what he's doing with the prisoners he's collected. And in return, you'll release us - all of us - and grant us safe passage out of Felwood."

"Acceptable," Nerothos said.

The demon's careless assent jolted Aren.

"I haven't agreed to anything," he said, finding his tongue.

Nerothos cut him a glance of mingled surprise and contempt. It was the exact expression he might have worn had one of the chairs sprung to life and offered a particularly stupid observation. "And why would you imagine that anyone requires that."

Callista shot the demon a venomous look, but didn't comment. Instead, she stood and turned towards Aren, settling one hand on the table. The corner of her mouth twitched sympathetically; it was the first time she'd really met his eyes since the guards dragged them in here. "This is the best choice we have," she said.

Nerothos tilted his head sardonically at that. His gaze lingered on Aren, but the remark he offered in the demon-tongue was not meant for him, voice pitched low with a derisive note that set Aren's teeth on edge.

Callista didn't respond, though the miniscule roll of her eyes seemed more a private reaction than a gesture of solidarity.

Aren suspected he was just beginning to sense the layered undercurrents warping this conversation. Even so, he interpreted this one easily enough; however the lines had been drawn when they entered this room, he was more alone than ever on his side now. "I am an officer of the Argent Dawn, Callista. I cannot make a pact with the Burning Legion. Under any circumstances. It doesn't matter what it leads to."

"No one is asking you to do that," she said. Her expression was softer than any he'd seen her wear in some time, smudged with dried blood across one cheek. It was unfair, how badly he could still want to believe her, even with an actual demon making snide comments over her shoulder. "The only one agreeing to any terms is me, and I'm not an officer of anything. If you happen to benefit from whatever I decide, I doubt your superiors will be able to fault you for it."

He shook his head. "That isn't how it works. You're still a member of my command. Everything that you do -"

"Then note your objection in your debriefing, after we survive." There was no rancor in her tone, but the finality in it chilled him.

"You don't have the authority to -"

"Are you sure? Your superiors must've suspected someone's hands would need to get dirty eventually. Or is there some other reason they strong-armed me into going with you?"

Whatever softness he thought he'd seen in her had vanished. She cocked her head, watching him with eyes like slate.

He opened his mouth and then shut it again, taken aback as much by her coldness as by the fact that she'd bring that up in front of the dreadlord. He realized, with a shock of anger, that she was less trying to convince him than to mold him into a bargaining chip. And he had no idea what to do about it. Even had they been alone, he didn't know how he would have handled her in this mood. And the dreadlord across the table only made it infinitely worse. Nerothos crossed his large pale arms, watching him like a fox waiting to see which way a cornered sparrow would dart.

"I'm not going to apologize for that again," Aren said stiffly.

Her bland gaze didn't waver, as though this were a meaningless tiff with someone she hardly knew. "I don't expect you to."

Nerothos curled his lip, baring the white point of a fang. "Is refusing to offer what no one is interested in how all Argent paladins negotiate, or is this only your personal expression of irrelevance?"

Callista flicked the dreadlord an irritated glance across her shoulder. Aren couldn't see why - the creature had taken her part. She snapped something at him, but any gratitude Aren may have felt for her intervention was destroyed by the fact that she'd done it in demonic rather than Common.

Nerothos appeared thoroughly unchastened by whatever she'd said. He flexed his leathery wings with arrogant unconcern before replying in the same tongue.

Callista's eyes narrowed, but she seemed to drop whatever that discussion had been, switching easily back to Common. "Is there anything else?"

"No," Nerothos said. He regarded Aren with a mannered solicitude that was mocking in its very correctness. "Assuming your 'captain' has no further concerns."

Supplicants of the Light were not supposed to foster hatred in their hearts. But Aren suddenly understood, in a visceral flash, why Prince Arthas might have ransomed his soul and sailed to the end of the world to murder a dreadlord.

"No," he managed to ungrit his teeth long enough to say. There was no point in dragging this out any longer.

Nerothos barely waited for his reply before trapping Callista again with his gaze. His wings spread, armor so black it seemed to swallow the light that fell on it, the veneer of amiability he'd sported gone. "I trust I needn't elaborate on the consequences of treachery, warlock."

Aren thought that in less personal circumstances, there might have been something funny about that - a demon admonishing a mortal about fair play.

Rather than flinch, Callista only turned to face him again. She laid her palms flat against the table as she looked up at him, answering his aggression with disarming simplicity. "I want to go home," she said. "That's the beginning and end of my interest in who rules in Jaedenar. Better you than Beltherac, I suppose. Or one of those jumped-up hairballs out of Satyrnaar."

Nerothos weighed that, watching her for a long moment. "The guards will see you back to your party. One of my servants will find you later with some information you may find useful."

* * *

 

Callista squinted in the midmorning light that filtered through the leaves. Even tainted with rot, as it invariably was in Felwood, the fitful breeze was welcome after so long underground. A few steps behind her glared the scintillating green eye of the portal that had delivered them. Despite the day's warmth, its wash of magic raised the hairs on her neck.

"Here." The one-eyed orc who'd escorted them out of the Hold spat the word at them like a curse in barely intelligible Common, and she turned in time to see his curt gesture to one of the quartet of felguards flanking him. "Take your stuff. And if you try run. We know. They kill you."

The felguard grinned, clearly enjoying the prospect, but dropped the sacks he had been carrying at his feet.

Azlia stroked her flank, pursing her lips at him in a playful moue that he pretended to ignore while watching sidelong past the edge of his helm.

Callista rolled her eyes. "Which way to the town?" she asked.

The orc's fire-scarred face crumpled into a scowl, as though she'd asked him for an unusual favor. He jabbed a finger in the direction of a gnarled old oak riven through with fungus, then shuffled around without another word, felguard escort in tow. The portal rippled as it swallowed them, irising silently closed.

Callista blinked, startled by the sudden departure.

Her series of follow-up questions - when could she expect to hear from Nerothos' contact, how would she get in touch if she happened to find anything - died on her tongue. Nevermind, then.

To her right, Aren tramped his way through the scraggly underbrush, turning out the sacks the felguard had dropped and beginning to sort their belongings into piles. He put his back to her, too rigidly for it be accidental, tossing boots and rumpled shirts to one side or the other in angry jerks.

Callista told herself she didn't care. Righteous indignation was a privilege of people who weren't broken corpses on the floor of the Shadow Hold. If someone needed to play the villain to keep him from committing pointlessly honorable suicide, she was entirely capable of doing that.

Wynda, who'd been supporting Ander with her good arm slung around his waist, eased him to the ground. She glanced at Aren's stiff motions as he inventoried their gear and then leveled a jaded look at Callista. "Well, lass, let's have it. I'm guessing that fiend didn't let us go just for old times' sake."

Callista shrugged, a one-shouldered gesture more casual than she truly felt. "He was surprisingly agreeable, actually. I'm sure we'll discover the awful reasons for that soon enough."

Azlia smiled, wetting her top lip with the tip of her tongue. "Even dreadlords can be reasonable if you ask very nicely."

Wynda shot her a distasteful look, but wisely ignored her. The yellowing bruise across her temple looked even angrier in the dappled sunlight than it had underground. "What did you promise the fiend, exactly?"

Callista hesitated. She quested outward with her magic, examining the surrounding forest, but sensed nothing out of the ordinary. The day was going to be hot; steam rose from the undergrowth, tortured by the breeze into fantastic shapes, but nothing else stirred besides leaves. She supposed Nerothos' portal wouldn't have tossed them out here if there had been any chance of witnesses.

"I told him I'd find out where Nathanial and Vorthaal have been taken, and why," she said. "The demon who captured them has been operating some cult nearby, it seems, and Nerothos wants to know what he's been up to."

"That's it?" Ander said, looking up hopefully from his seat on a log studded with venomous green toadstools. One of the paladins had tended to his leg, but the bandage was filthy and his trousers rusty with blood. Nether, they were a sorry-looking lot. "No creepy soul magic, no ritual murder...just...do the thing we were going to do anyway and send your horrifying demon friend a courtesy note?" He looked around, marking Wynda's pursed lips and Aren's tightly set jaw. "Am I missing something? Because...that doesn't sound terrible. What part of that is terrible?"

"Aye, it all seems tolerable enough on the face of it," Wynda said. "And that makes me trust this dreadlord even less. Even I know his kind is a byword for treachery. Why is he going after this other fiend? What guarantee do we have he'll keep his word when this is through?"

Aren stood, wiping his palms against his leathers. A spear of sunlight pierced the canopy, limning his hair and the firm breadth of his shoulders with gold. He was almost aggravatingly handsome, Callista thought, even with his face pinched like a magistrate's handing down an unpleasant sentence. It made it hard to maintain the frustration with him that kept more uncomfortable feelings at bay. The cynical part of her mind wondered how tempted she'd have been to dump him straight in the Shadow Council's lap, if he'd looked less like a graven image in a cathedral vestibule.

"It's not just the likelihood of betrayal, though that does worry me, too," he said. The wariness around his eyes pricked Callista's conscience harder than the subdued anger in his tone. "You've agreed to run errands for the Burning Legion. What harm are we doing by helping that monster? Do you even care? You never even tried to find out, just agreed to everything he said."

Callista wrinkled her nose in disagreement, measuring her response. Incredulity at how anyone could be so self-immolatingly single-minded mingled with her feeling that Aren deserved to get his licks in, after the way she'd used him earlier. She'd only done what was necessary, but she'd learned by now that necessity was not a word to placate him. It was almost freeing, in a way; she did not believe he would forgive her, so she no longer had to worry about tarnishing whatever illusions he'd woven to cover the holes in her moral fabric.

She sighed. "If you want to save yourself some angst, I wouldn't take too much of what was said in there at face value. You're right; a demon's word isn't generally worth much. And I haven't decided yet if mine is, either."

The browned skeleton of a leaf fluttered past Aren's face, but he ignored it, intent on watching her. "What's that supposed to mean? I thought you didn't think you could lie to him," he said.

Since he'd gathered that from a remark she'd made to Nerothos, it seemed he wasn't taking her advice too seriously. In this case, though, he wasn't wrong. "I wasn't lying to him, exactly," she said. "If I happen to find his information, I'll have no problem giving it to him. But now that we're out of the Shadow Hold, it's possible a better opportunity will present itself."

Wynda raised her ruddy brows. "By the Light, lass, you're not seriously recommending we try to double cross a dreadlord."

Callista cocked her head and shrugged. "I'm not recommending we do anything. I agree with you, for what it's worth. We don't know enough about what's happening here. Even if nothing worse is going on, Nerothos must have dozens of informants in Jaedenar. How can he not know what his supposed ally is doing on his own doorstep? There's some nasty kink to this he hasn't seen fit to mention, I'm sure."

Aren shook his head. "Then why didn't you press him, if that's what you thought?"

"What good would that have done?" she retorted. "You saw how cagey he got when I asked what he thought happened to the others. If he wanted us to know, he would have told us."

"And you're okay with that."

"Of course not," she said coolly. "I simply didn't care."

And she was exhausted and filthy and tired of being interrogated. She anticipated the spasm of outrage that stiffened his handsome face, continuing before he could start lecturing her. "We were prisoners," she said, narrowing her eyes. "No one was coming to rescue us. As far as I was concerned, Nerothos could tell us whatever tales he thought we needed to hear, as long as he freed us in the end. Better to survive, and sort the the truth out later."

Wynda grimaced, rubbing her fingers against her temple as though to stave off a headache. "Well, I can't say I approve the notion of being beholden to that bat-winged terror, but I'm not sure what else you could have done." She looked meaningfully at Aren, clearly willing him to let the matter rest.

He disregarded her stare. "We're answering to demons. You can't actually believe this will end here."

Ander glanced slowly between the two paladins, as though gradually concluding he might be the only sane man in the vicinity. Callista sympathized; her own similar suspicion was rapidly attaining the firmness of dogma. As he studied them, the careless facade he'd worn since their escape seemed to fray and finally fall away, his usually jovial face bare with anger. "Are you even listening to yourselves?"

His voice razored through the soft rustle of branches, startling Aren and Wynda into pivoting to look at him more squarely. Even Azlia, who treated all mortal concerns with contempt as a point of pride, straightened her insouciant lean against a tree trunk to stare.

"Sitting here acting all high and mighty over...what-ifs. Of course everyone in this disgusting forest has an agenda! Who cares! Are you planning to ask the dreadlord for your cell back, please?"

"Easy, lad," Wynda said, gripping his shoulder reassuringly. "That's not what we -"

"Demons have my brother!" he snarled. He shrugged her hand away angrily. "Don't you get it? That's not some...some imaginary moral test, that's real. I thought we were going to die in those cells, but we didn't, and now she tells me we have the chance to save him. But you're too busy worrying the Light's going to rap your knuckles like a bitter old schoolmarm if you put a toe out of line. Well, guess what? I don't care. I don't care about some made-up harm we may or may not be doing by rescuing my brother. Do you know where you're going?"

This last was directed at Callista, the question slow to penetrate her astonishment at his outburst. "Yes," she managed.

He nodded, face strained and pale beneath his thatch of black hair. "Good. Then let's get our stuff and get moving. You two can sit here and...pray for help, or whatever, if you don't want to come."

"I'm sorry, Ander," Aren said. His shoulders sank as his indignation faded, until he looked nearly as stricken as the sickly trees that framed him. "We haven't forgotten about your brother. Or Vorthaal."

"Yeah, whatever," Ander muttered, staring down at the clenched fists in his lap. "Come on. Just...let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, thanks to anyone still reading! I really do have every intention of finishing this thing, hopefully before too many more expansions have come and gone, ha. Special shout-out to Ihsan997, for providing both inspiring stories that keep me thinking about Warcraft and thoughtful conversation.
> 
> BTW, if you're wondering what Nerothos and Callista were saying in those asides in Aren's POV, some rough translations, in order, would be: 1) Nerothos suggesting Callista's best choice would have been pushing them all out of the boat over the maelstrom, but seeing as they're here... 2) Callista snapping at Nerothos that making Aren hate him would only make her job harder, to which Nerothos replies that that sounded like a personal problem.


	17. Settling In

Jaedenar itself was less a traditional settlement than an abscess in the diseased forest. What passed for a main street was little more than a muddy scab worn clear of undergrowth, wandering from the gaping cavern mouth that was the formal entrance of the Shadow Hold, through the center of a slightly denser cluster of ramshackle huts, before petering out at the edge of an emerald-tinted creek. Repurposed night-elven ruins butted up against piecemeal new construction in styles cribbed from all corners of Azeroth. The town had no defined borders; it might appear to sink into the forest in one direction, only for a clutch of rickety shacks to appear behind the next rise like woody toadstools.

Callista led her companions through the gap between a ring of hide tents and the burned husk of an Ancient of War, following her vague memories of the single time she'd visited Jaedenar towards the human quarter. As she'd predicted, the felguards stationed around the outpost paid them no mind. With the paladins armed with the shortswords and secondhand armor their captors had provided, they were indistinguishable from any other bedraggled group skulking out of Felwood.

"If those fiends damage my hammer, I'll mash their heads into pudding and serve it up in consecrated bowls," Wynda grumbled. She examined their surroundings with disdain, fingering the tattered hilt of her replacement sword.

Azlia giggled. "You could try, mortal."

"Ew," Ander said approvingly, winking at the succubus.

Aren, supporting Ander as he limped on his wounded leg, remained broodingly silent. Callista could feel his eyes boring into her, but she found his anger less unsettling than Ander's forced cheerfulness. Now that they were on the move, he seemed determined to pretend his earlier outburst hadn't happened, flirting outrageously with Azlia and grinning with almost manic intensity. His exaggerated attempts to impersonate himself made her nervous. Exhausted and on-edge, she only wanted to find a place to hole up before they drew unwanted notice.

She side-stepped to avoid a pack of imps as they scampered past, chattering raucously in low demonic.

"If the Sentinels only knew," Wynda groused. She looked as though she were considering aiming a good kick at the hindmost one.

It made a rude gesture at her before skittering off with simian agility.

"Oh, they know," Callista said. "But we're far from the nearest settlement, and Jaedenar's not foolish enough to provoke a full assault."

"More's the pity."

Away from the cavern at the outpost's heart, the leaf-littered paths they trod were mostly empty. An occasional robed figure watched them from a doorway or furtively avoided eye contact as it sidled past. Callista adjusted the hood of her own cloak, purely out of habit; no chance of remaining anonymous here this time.

The decaying trees clustered densely enough to strangle the late-morning sun before opening suddenly into a white stone courtyard. Browning weeds drooped between cracked cobbles, a tangled profusion of thorns bristling from the bowl of a dry fountain.

"This is it." Callista said. "The Shattered Moon."

"Blasted heathens," Wynda muttered, eyeing the building's front with distaste.

The inn inhabited the shell of what had once been a Kaldorei temple, before someone had, as best as Callista could guess from the scorch marks and the grown-over crater that caused its entire facade to list to the right, dropped an infernal onto it. Broad stairs spilled from its greening worked-copper doors, open now to catch the morning commerce. An elegant colonnade curved from the temple's left side, but new construction had been grafted onto the blasted shell of its right, rough timber covering the damage like ugly scar tissue.

"At least they'll speak Common inside," Callista said.

At this hour of the morning the tavern area was mostly empty, save for a pair of Forsaken hunched over a table in the back corner and the bartender, a whip-muscled orc women whose head was shaved around her black ponytail.

"Two rooms, please," Callista said, approaching the bar.

The orc appraised the five of them with a jaded air. "How are you plannin' to pay?"

"Bill my account with the Sweetwater. Here." She tore a slip of paper from the stack sitting on the bar and seared an identifying rune onto it. She would definitely be presenting the Argent Dawn with the bill when this was all over. Due to the contamination of the surrounding land, most of the food in Jaedenar needed to be brought in by cart or by portal, and prices were exorbitant as a result.

The orc grunted in acknowledgment, expression softening only slightly now that she was assured of an open line of credit. She pried a pair of keys from a bristling ring and slapped them onto the bar. "Room numbers are on the keys. Outside to the right."

* * *

The orc's directions led them back beneath the colonnade, where the line of doors that had once belonged to minor priestesses' quarters had been numbered and fitted with cheap locks.

"What do you think fel magic does to bedbugs," Ander wondered, eyeing the temple's moss-stained stone.

"Can I stay, mistress? Pleeeaaase," Azlia begged.

Callista considered her, the succubus's large almond eyes widening in silent appeal. Normally, letting her minion run loose wouldn't be worth the mischief, but she had broader concerns at hand. "Yes, actually," she said. "Go find your sisters. I want to know who's in Jaedenar right now."

Azlia licked her lip. "And what should I say when they ask what  _you're_ doing here?"

Callista shrugged, keenly aware how many ears might be listening behind the porous wood of the other doors. "Tell them the truth," she said. "My reputation caught up with me in Stormwind, and as a result I'll be staying in Felwood for a while."

"Uh-huh," Azlia said, brushing her gaze over the paladins with a smirk. She turned to go, glancing back over a delicate shoulder with a little moue - "Try not to have too much fun without me."

Callista drew up one corner of her mouth speculatively. "Bring any felguards back here, and I'll banish you both to whatever part of the Nether spawns twelve eyed void terrors."

* * *

After so long in monstrous surroundings - the twisted forest of Felwood, the catacombs below the Hold - the dingy rented room seemed almost unreal. Cheap stage dressing for what Callista was sure would be an unpleasant performance. If there had ever been glass in the narrow window, it had shattered in the assault that broke the temple. Instead, light filtered through roughly- hewn shutters, striping the bare flagstoned floor and the smudged plaster of the walls. Callista perched on the edge of the lumpy mattress, studying what looked like an old felfire burn near the ceiling.

For all she remembered, she might have stayed in this very room during her last visit. Jaedenar had seemed more exciting, then. A bastion of forbidden power, rather than what she had quickly learned it to be: last precarious foothold of a failed invasion; lodestone to the desperate, the ambitious, and the vultures who preyed on both.

She dragged herself over to the basin resting on the little nightstand near the headboard, dipping a coarse cloth into the water and scrubbing the worst of the grime from her face. At some point she'd have to arrange a proper bath, but this would do for now.

Across from her, Wynda performed a similar ritual, unwrapping the filthy bandages that sheathed her wrist and eyeing the contents of her own pewter bowl doubtfully. "I trust this water won't make us sprout horns."

"It's pure," Callista assured her. "The river's a cesspool, but most of the wells draw from a cleansed aquifer beneath the caverns."

Wynda frowned. She looked briefly like she might ask the obvious question - how could there be clean water under the heart of this corruption? - but in the end she seemed to think better of it. She plunged her injured hand into the bowl, grimacing at the cold.

Callista exhaled silently into her washcloth, relieved. She happened to know the answer to the paladin's unspoken question, and it was unpleasant. As most things in Jaedenar tended to be. She'd delivered enough bad news lately.

The reprieve was short-lived, however, as Wynda spoke again, quietly so as not to be heard through the wall. "Give it to me straight, lass. What are the odds we find Vorthaal and Nathanial alive?"

She finished toweling her face, taking extra care with the cloth to delay answering, then dropped it into her lap. "Bad," she said, too exhausted to soften the blow.

Wynda appeared to have expected that answer. "How bad?"

" _Very_ bad. No one seems to have any idea what happened to them, and unusual fates here typically aren't pleasant. If you want to know what I think…" She trailed off, not even sure  _she_  wanted to think too hard about what she thought. Callista had a good imagination and more experience than most with the Burning Legion; the two together yielded nothing palatable.

Wynda watched her impassively, waiting for her to continue.

Callista grimaced. "Some kind of soul engine would be my guess, if I really had to have one."

She nodded thoughtfully. "You think the demon means to use them in some spell? Aye, that makes a nasty kind of sense."

"I don't know what else he could be doing. None of us are valuable on our own, and demons don't typically have much use for slaves." She cocked her head. "Actually, there  _is_  a slave market in Jaedenar, but if this other dreadlord were only trying to turn a quick coin, I doubt Nerothos would be so agitated."

"Right. So what  _did_  that fiend have to say about it?"

Callista laughed humorlessly. "Very little. As you might expect. If Vorthaal and Nathanial are meant as fodder for some spell, they're very likely already dead. And if they're dead, he loses his leash."

Wynda set her good elbow on her knee, resting her freckled chin against her knuckles to better eye her. "Doesn't seem like much of one anyway, given your...lack of conviction."

She shook her head. "It isn't, for me. But  _you're_  honorable paladins, who would never abandon your own while there's hope. And I may be a faithless Legion collaborator, but I'm also an Argent conscript, and if I ever want to set foot in Stormwind again, I need you to return with a glowing report of my good behavior. Or at least to return not dead."

Wynda gave a dry chuckle. "So that's the line you went with, aye? Aren must have  _loved_  that."

"Oh, I'm sure it didn't help."

Wynda sighed. "You know you've made this harder on yourself than it needed to be."

Yes. She could have turned around at Auberdine. "I've only done what I had to."

"Aye. And you were damned tight-lipped and imperious about it, too."

Callista narrowed her eyes, but Wynda continued before she could interject. "I don't think anyone takes issue with what you've actually done, lass. Not even Aren, once he gets a moment to breath and screw his head on straight. But the instant things got hairy, you cut us loose as fast as you could work the knife. Maybe you feel like we don't trust you, and aye, there's some truth to that. But it's not because of your history. It's because you've made it clear you don't trust  _us_  one whit."

Wynda wasn't wrong. Echoes of another conversation, worlds away -  _I know, I know. You're always_ sorry - rang unbidden in her ears. Old patterns. Perhaps she wasn't so different from the last version of herself who'd perched on the edge of one of these beds. It had always been her instinct, when things went careening sideways, to assume she was the most competent creature in the room and start excising complications immediately. It made her a good survivor and a bad friend.

She sighed. "What would you have had me do instead?"

"Just give us a chance, lass. You're so sure we'll choose poorly. So you take matters into your own hands, which makes us furious, which makes you think you were right all along."

"I tried telling you the truth. It didn't seem to help much."

"Aye, you told us some things. You explained why the dreadlord might know your name, and why we shouldn't ready the hanging rope for it. But not what to expect, or why we should trust his word now, or even what your own intentions are. We've had to take a lot on faith, without being offered much in return."

Callista breathed out, not quite another sigh, and studied her hands where they lay against the damp cloth in her lap. Dried blood remained trapped beneath her nails, despite the scrubbing. "I'm sorry it turned out this way."

It was not really an apology. There was sympathy beneath the incisiveness in Wynda's gaze anyway. "Sleep on it." She paused. "I'd pray for you, but I'm afraid the words would bounce like rain on a hot greased skillet."

Callista tossed the washcloth onto the nightstand and made a face. "Very funny," she said.

* * *

"Oooooh, you're in trouble now, mistress."

She woke some time later to Azlia's warm breath on her ear. She flinched away and shoved at the sayaad's thigh, but she proved impossible to dislodge from the bed. Despite her slight stature, Azlia was damnably strong. "What," Callista muttered into her pillow. Nestled in her snug cocoon of blankets, the fear and confusion of the past few weeks seemed pleasantly fuzzy. She had no desire to wake and sharpen them again.

"I said, 'you're in trouble'," Azlia practically sang.

The naked delight in her voice penetrated Callista's drowsy fog more successfully than her actual words. Azlia loved delivering bad news. Callista rolled over and peered crankily at her, hauling her thoughts up from a deep well of sleep. "Of course I'm in trouble. Look at where we are."

Azlia smiled slyly. "In bed?"

"Try again."

Azlia leaned over her, pushing a hand against the mattress on either side of her shoulders with a sinuous motion. Silky strands of her hair cascaded down to tickle Callista's neck as she licked her lips, savoring the taste of her own speech. "There was a  _scene_ yesterday. In the Shadow Hold."

"And?" Callista said, the last traces of her lethargy dissolving into mild exasperation. Trying to have a conversation this way was pointless. Looking at Azlia only provided an unobstructed and obviously carefully engineered view down her bustier.

She pressed a finger into the succubus' breastbone, pushing her away until she could sit up without planting her face in her chest.

Azlia submitted docilely, a wicked smile still playing about her lips. "Beltherac's deathknight returned one of Nerothos' spies yesterday. Without his tongue. Or his eyes. Or a few other pieces."

"So what?" Callista said, rubbing a knuckle into her eye. In truth, the phrase 'Beltherac's deathknight' gave her stomach an unpleasant turn, but she wouldn't give Azlia the satisfaction of seeing it. "Someone's always getting his tongue cut out in this miserable hole."

"I know. Isn't it exciting? The next one might be yours."

Her gaze tightened sourly. "I don't suppose you've ever run into Beltherac before."

Azlia sniffed, tail switching against the rumpled sheets. "Of course not.  _I_  don't socialize with nathrezim. All they care about is their silly little plots, and they never want to do anything fun. That's why I keep telling you not to get involved with them, not that you ever listen to  _my_ advice _."_

Callista rolled her eyes. Azlia patently hated Nerothos, though she suspected the reason was nothing so sound as that one. As a rule, Azlia only really enjoyed the company of creatures that would stare at her breasts long enough for her to try to hamstring them, and she doubted there were many dreadlords particularly susceptible to that trick.

"What else did you find? Anyone we might know skulking around?"

"Your little friend Laszlo's here representing the Sweetwater Cartel. And I met a sayaad who said her master came from Stormwind - Daeron something-or-other."

"Ha. I knew it!" Callista said.

Across the room, Wynda, roused by their voices, disentangled herself from the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Despite having just woken, she looked sharp and alert. "Who let that fiend in?"

Azlia poured herself off Callista's bed to settle against the nightstand, dragging a finger idly along the neckline of her bustier. "It was a flimsy lock. Good thing mistress likes you, paladin."

Wynda looked suitably mistrustful at the idea of Azlia slinking around while she slept.

Callista shook her head, unperturbed by the ease with which she'd trespassed. Much as the succubus pretended to be purely decorative, she did have a handful of useful talents, mostly involving being places she shouldn't. "What time is it?" she asked, squinting at the light filtering through the shutters.

"Morning again, mistress," Azlia replied. "You slept  _forever_. I was starting to get bored."

"Then go have the kitchens start making some breakfast." She looked at Wynda. "Think the others are up yet?"

* * *

Aren wasn't sure what to make of Jaedenar.

He'd left Ander snoring in their shared room, quietly performing his morning ablutions in the pre-dawn dimness before wandering out into the common area. He'd taken a seat at a table nestled between one of the fluted columns that marched down both sides of the rectangular room and the wall, keeping him out of sight but granting a good view of the door and the long bar that connected the columns across the way.

He had to admit that The Shattered Moon was a striking establishment, even if the desecration of the holy place repelled him. Decorative gaps in the high ceiling opened to the sky, providing natural light for what had once been elegant garden beds set into the tiles but were now swaths of packed earth and straw. At one end of the hall, the ornate double doors had been propped open, watched by a bored felguard leaning against one of the jambs. A large statue of Elune gazed down at him from the other end. Surprisingly, she remained mostly intact, though someone had fastened crude horns to her forehead and scrawled runes across her naked torso, making her resemble a female satyr with an oddly beneficent expression.

Aside from the statue, the felguard bouncer, and the occasional imp or succubus who passed through the doors, this might've been a strangely-proportioned inn near the mage quarter of any neutral city.

A man in wrinkled grey robes sat at one of the round tables near the bar, chewing on dried fruit and reading an outdated copy of the Gadgetzan Gazette. A blood elf woman and what appeared to be two orc bodyguards sat near the statue, the woman scribbling furiously on a sheet of parchment while the guards shared a pot of coffee. Two Forsaken - possibly the same pair from yesterday - conferred over a large tome in one of the corners.

Aren surreptitiously studied his fellow patrons, looking for some sign of unusual wickedness. Though he was sure there were very few  _good_  reasons for ending up in this room, the faces around him were decidedly average.

Familiar voices caught his ear as new customers entered the tavern.

Wynda strode through the wide copper doors with the air of a warden entering a particularly noisome prison yard. Clean bandages wrapped her wrist, the healing bruises on her face almost invisible from where he sat. Ander had acquired a stout stick to use as a cane, and he limped along on her heels with more enthusiasm than grace, gaze searching the room with avid interest bordering on delight. Behind them trailed Callista, watching her companions reactions with clear amusement. She'd pulled her hair up into the artfully artless knot he remembered from his first sight of her on the docks in Stormwind, rune-marked robes hanging open over her tunic in the fashion of Stormwind mages.

Aren had been about to hail them, but the sight of her so tied his tongue that he ducked back behind his pillar instead, silently cursing his cowardice. What possessed him?  _He_  wasn't the one who'd done anything wrong. Even so, the way they'd left it between them filled him with a formless guilt.

Fortunately, the orcish proprietor motioned Callista over to the bar, momentarily sparing him the awkwardness of facing her.

He leaned out and waved to Wynda and Ander, gesturing them to his table.

Ander plunked down into the chair on his left and dropped his stick with a clatter. "I'm starving! What do demons eat for breakfast?"

"Nothing, I'd wager," Wynda said, taking the seat on Ander's other side. " _You're_ eating bread and summer sausage."

Despite their injuries, they both looked healthier than he'd seen them since their capture. The worrisome pallor had left Ander's face, strain no longer pinching Wynda's forehead into premature creases.

"How did you sleep?" Aren asked.

"Like a babe, until I woke up to Callista's half-dressed thrall leering over my pillow."

"Lucky," Ander said dreamily.

Wynda shot him a stern look. "I trust you haven't forgotten that creature is a  _demon_."

"How could I? What with the wings, and those adorable horns...I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" he said, holding up his hands to fend off Wynda's scandalized glare. "I can't help having eyes! Besides, Callista's got a handle on her. I'm sure she's harmless."

"I think even she would deny that, lad," Wynda said.

"Deny what?"

Callista edged around the side of the column, avoiding Aren's gaze in a way that might have been accidental as she pulled out the chair next to Wynda. She dropped a folded letter onto the table in front of her as she sat.

"Succubus," Wynda said succinctly.

"Oh." She assessed Ander's expression - still moon-eyed. Leaning across the table, she waggled a hand past his face until he focused on her scowl. "Succubi are demons," she said in the same patient tone she might have used to explain whiskey is wet. "Do... _not_...sleep with demons."

Ander grinned, undismayed. "Is that theoretical advice, or have you ever - "

"What did the bartender want?" Wynda asked, pointedly cutting off what was sure to be an unproductive line of inquiry.

Callista scrunched her features at Ander in a caricature of disgust before prodding the letter gingerly with a fingernail. "She gave me this. Our instructions, I presume."

A circle of purple wax fastened the page, strangely smooth and unmarked where a seal would normally have been imprinted.

"Addressed to you?" Wynda asked, eyeing the innocent-looking missive with distrust.

"So I've been told," Callista said. She pulled a small pearl-inlaid switchblade from her pocket. Rather than using it to open the letter, she pricked her thumb and pressed a drop of blood into the wax.

It dissolved with an angry hiss as the letter unfolded in front of her.

"Why is everything gross blood magic with you people?" Ander asked, pulling a face.

Callista made an absent motion with the switchblade. "Something something, when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like you should stick a knife in it," she said, smoothing the parchment out on the table with her other hand.

Aren craned his neck, trying to read the contents, but the characters were unfamiliar. Demon-speech, he supposed, since Callista appeared to be having no trouble.

"Well, lass?" Wynda prompted.

"Directions to a meeting place," she said. "I'll have to go alone."

"Why?" Aren asked. It was the first word he'd said to her in almost a day.

She glanced at him neutrally. If his suspicion annoyed her, she hid it well. "There are portal coordinates inscribed into the parchment. Passage for one only. It'll have to be me, unless you want to walk back from wherever it puts you."

"I don't like the feel of this," he said.

"And you think I do?"

It was tempting to suggest she ignore the letter's instructions - as much because he was tired of all their knowledge being filtered through the warlock's opaque agenda as because he feared for her safety - but he knew that would not be practical. They needed something to go on if they were to ever rescue Nathanial and Vorthaal. And if they planned to stay out of Jaedenar's cells themselves, immediate disobedience was not the way to do it.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I suppose we have no choice," he said. "While you're doing that, the rest of us can explore the outpost. Get our bearings."

He was mildly surprised when Callista nodded. "That's a good idea. You should take Azlia with you. She's been here before."

Aren grimaced. He didn't relish the idea of spending more time in the succubus' company, but he did see how she could be useful. Among other things, she'd provide a veneer of legitimacy; despite the complete disinterest the occupants of Jaedenar had treated him with so far, he couldn't shake the feeling that at any moment someone would point a finger and shriek "paladin!", incinerating him on the spot.

"Don't worry, mortal," a velvety voice cooed close to his ear.

Aren jerked, alarmed to find the succubus almost leaning against his shoulder. He was certain he hadn't seen her approach.

The side of her breast brushed his arm as she slid him a coy glance, reaching over to place a platter of bread and sausage into the center of the table.

He shuddered at the touch.

"I know  _all_ the best places."

* * *

They hadn't lingered over breakfast. Seated around a table for the first time since Auberdine, the absence of their companions was as noticeable as a missing limb. Ander, sensing the strain, had teased and joked with uncommon ebullience, but there was something lost behind his eyes. Callista barely spoke at all, eating her bread and sausage with mechanical preoccupation while somehow managing never to look Aren's way. Only Wynda had seemed her usual steadfast self. Aren had been grateful when the last crumbs had been cleared and he could return to his room to prepare for their foray into Jaedenar.

Footsteps halted behind him as he struggled to fit the poorly-milled key into the lock.

"Can we talk?"

He glanced over his shoulder.

Callista stood in one of the bars of light that slanted into the colonnade. The sun burnished her hair to gold, but its brightness also obscured her expression, making it hard for Aren to know which woman he was dealing with: the charming, if arrogant, arcanist he'd traveled here with, or the calculating nightmare he'd discovered since they'd arrived.

She stepped forward into the shade of one of the columns, and the uncomfortable expression he found on her face reassured him. Slightly.

"About what?" he asked stiffly, finally fumbling the key into the lock. He pulled the door open and entered, leaving it ajar so she could follow if she chose.

She did, nudging it shut behind her. Gone was the icy poise he'd found so disconcerting during their meeting with the demon. Instead, she looked as though she'd closed the door as much to keep herself from backing out of it again as for privacy.

"I wanted to apologize," she said.

Aren couldn't decide if he was surprised. At or words or her attitude. And wasn't that the heart of the problem, even more than anything she'd truly done? His sense of her was so fragmented that he could no longer begin to guess what might be in her nature, for good or for ill.

"For what?" he asked flatly. He rummaged through the pile of gear he'd left on the floor, identifying his boiled leather breastplate and pauldrons and laying them on the bed.

There was a silence of several heartbeats - he imagined she was looking at him disbelievingly.

"For treating you like this was your fault. For not explaining myself." She paused again, but he didn't turn to look at her, continuing to sort his armor onto the bed. It wasn't a bad set, all things considered. Lighter than the solid plate he preferred, but a decent fit and well-made. He thought a brief word of prayer for the previous owner, hoping his fate hadn't been too cruel.

"For committing you to a path you had no choice in. For letting you be blind-sided." Her words fell like stones into the sun-warmed air between them. "Have I missed anything?" There was a faint thread of impatience in her tone, but mostly she just sounded tired.

He relented, turning. "What about Nerothos?"

Aren suspected that she was actually trying to be sincere, but, even so, she couldn't quite seem to help herself. She lifted a brow. "Apologize for him in a broad, existential sense? Or…"

It was all still too close for Aren to find it funny. "You know what I mean."

Her expression sobered repentantly. "Yes, I do." She sighed and crossed her arms. Even her eyes as she watched him seemed more yielding, no trace of the iron they'd so often held lately. "You want to understand what happened in that audience? Then consider this. Nerothos never had any intention of bargaining with you. He'd already made his ultimatum, and I accepted it simply by not spinning on my heel and leaving the Hold the moment he released me. Everything else was a mixture of farce and due diligence."

Aren nodded curtly. Most of that, he'd already guessed, though he didn't mind the confirmation. "Due diligence?"

She shrugged. "You're paladins. Enemies of the Shadow Council. Letting you loose in Jaedenar is a risk. I suspect he wanted to take your measure, make sure you weren't too dangerous to free, even nominally in his service."

He laughed, more humorlessly than he'd planned. "Good thing I didn't cut a very majestic figure."

She had grace enough to wince guiltily. "Believe me, you didn't want to."

"Is that why you turned on me?"

To his relief, she didn't try to deny it. Instead she wrinkled her nose sheepishly. "Partly," she admitted. "Partly because I'd already explained to him that I didn't join your cause voluntarily. Partly because I knew he'd feel better about letting us go together if we didn't seem too chummy."

Aren digested that. It did explain her sudden shift in demeanor. He almost told her she could have warned him, but he realized immediately that it wasn't true. He would have had to feign his reactions, and even in front of a much less perceptive audience than a dreadlord he was a poor dissembler. That still didn't mean he liked being used. "Don't do it again."

So subtly he would have missed it if he hadn't been searching her face, that chill composure settled over her again. "The demon got what he wanted. I don't think I'll have to."

That wasn't what he'd asked of her. It maddened him, how easily she slipped into that other self. No matter how vulnerable she looked, there was a part of him now that was ever vigilant, waiting for that collected mask to frost over her features and prove how little she really trusted him. He'd mostly come to terms with everything else - her dishonesty, her strange alliances - but  _that_  continued to cut.

He buried his anger until it smoldered out. Now was not the time to broach that topic - if there ever would be a time. Better to take advantage of her uncharacteristically forthcoming mood (and Light help him, he hated his own cynicism, but how else could he act when he needed someone he could not believe?). "When he pulled you aside in the hallway. What did he say to you?"

She shrugged. "He wanted to know what I was doing here. I told the truth, more or less. We argued. I lost. Obviously."

Obviously. "Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

She seemed to consider that for a moment. "Yes," she said. She approached him, finally, and for an uncertain moment he thought she might touch him, unsure what he'd do if she did. But rather than reaching out, she only sat on the bed next to his scattered armor. Her glance grazed his cheek before sliding sideways to meet his own. "I thought I could shield you from some of what I knew would happen here." The corner of her mouth twisted wryly. "But as Wynda told me in no uncertain terms yesterday, I made a terrible mess of it. It would still be much easier for you - and, if I'm being totally honest, me - if you'd let me handle the Shadow Council on my own, but I understand why you feel you can't."

Somehow, it had never occurred to him that she might have been trying to protect him. He flinched inwardly at some of the things he'd said. "Callista -"

She breathed a short laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise. Even if I succeeded, I know you wouldn't thank me for it later."

"No," he said quietly. "I wouldn't." Before his reason could catch up with the reflex he reached for her, brushing her arm with the back of his hand.

She looked startled, but didn't push him away. After a moment she closed her fingers gently around his.

"If you really want to be party to this," she said, looking up at him with a skewed smile, "at least let me give you some advice. Something I was told once."

In truth, he wasn't sure he wanted to be party to whatever she meant by 'this' - any of it. But willful ignorance would be no excuse if they met with tragedy here. Not to his superiors in Stormwind, if by some miracle he made it back to them, and even less so to his own already burdened conscience.

He nodded to show he was listening.

She held up two fingers of her free hand in what he was sure was affectionate mockery of some old teacher. "Second rule of summoning. When dealing with demons, the conversation is never really about whatever the conversation's about. It is always,  _always_ about power."

He rolled that over in his mind. "Meaning…"

"Meaning the truth is a sideshow, if it bothers to turn up at all. Pretense matters.  _Presence_ matters. Where you stand, how you carry yourself, who you support, matters at least as much as the substance of what you say."

Aren grimaced. His exact least favorite set of circumstances. No wonder he'd made such an ass of himself with the dreadlord. "You said that's the second rule. What's the first one?"

She grinned wolfishly. "'Never call up that which you can't put down.'"

* * *

The letter had said to meet at mid-day.

Callista latched the shutters of her rented room to keep out prying eyes, moving the basin from the nightstand to the floor to lay the parchment in its place. Digging a hand into the inner pocket of her robe produced the switchblade again. She flicked it open, nicking the pad of her thumb with its point and drawing a bead of blood that she smeared against the parchment.

The paper swallowed it hungrily. Runes bloomed beneath its surface, their venomous glow blotting out the ink.

She snatched up the letter and pocketed it with the knife, backing away from the nightstand as the sigils whirled into the air and resolved into an elliptical portal large enough for her to walk through.

As a rule, jumping into portals with dubious endpoints was  _not_  a good idea. But as this whole enterprise had been a horrible idea to begin with, she supposed it was only fitting.

Swallowing her caution, she stepped through anyway.

The sudden relocation wrenched her stomach as she emerged somewhere altogether different.

Forest again. She'd arrived at the edge of a ruined moonwell. Pale lichen scabbed the boulders at its rim, and whatever blessing the waters had once held had long failed, given over to green algae and evil-looking frogspawn. The crosspiece of a toppled henge protruded from the middle of the pool like an accusing finger. No birds sang from the limp branches overhead, but the shrill complaint of some wicked cousin to the cricket pierced the quiet.  _Reep reep. Reep reep. Reep reep._

It was the only sound above the whisper of leaves. She'd beaten her contact here, whoever he was.

Callista sat down on a stone at the edge of the moonwell to wait. Her eye landed on a spiny orange slug larger than her palm as it oozed its way around the rim of the pool. Disgusting. The lands around Jaedenar were tainted as any but the most blasted of Legion worlds. That the outpost existed at all was a testament to the efficiency of goblin supply lines and the resilience of mortal love for enclaves beyond the reach of law. Not that that meant chaos reigned - on the contrary, the brutal order imposed by Jaedenar's masters supported a thriving black market.

She amused herself for a while by composing a mental list of what she should stock up on, so long as she found herself here, but nothing happened for long enough that she began to be annoyed. The slug had almost reached the far side of the moonwell, the shadow of the fallen henge lengthening across the water's muddy surface, by the time a flurry of runes spun to life in the air of the clearing.

She stood, crossing her arms and arranging her face coolly. Long as she'd been waiting, she'd had plenty of time to revise what would have been a neutral greeting into something blistering. The portal stretched and flattened to a uniform fiery green as she watched, ready to pounce the moment her contact stepped onto the leaves.

Rather than a foot, a heavy black hoof emerged.

Her cultivated expression of hostility flickered.

The rest of Nerothos followed in short order, wings clipped tight to fit through the portal's wavering boundary.

Not what she'd expected.

She dropped her arms to her sides again as she re-evaluated. "You're late," she said, tempering her speech.

The demon scanned the clearing with cursory interest, the green glow of his eyes washed pale by the dappled sun. "I was unavoidably detained," he said.

Callista's mouth twitched skeptically, but she knew better than to expect an apology for wasting her time. Most of her ire had cooled anyway, replaced by suspicion. A leather folio dangled from one of his clawed hands. Why come here himself, she wondered. He was ruining her attempts to convince herself this didn't represent as much danger as she feared. Though she'd been optimistic at first - Nerothos could not have planned for their arrival, so it was likely this task he'd set for them was only a target of opportunity - Azlia's talk of spies with their tongues missing had rattled that theory. And that Nerothos had met her here in person upended it further. It was increasingly possible that the opposite were true - perhaps this  _was_  important, but his past efforts had proven...insufficient. Now there was an alarming thought. And not unprecedented, given their history.

"More of your spies wander back without their heads?" she hazarded.

He spread his wings lazily before replying, no doubt enjoying the open air after the cramped passages of the Shadow Hold. She wondered if ducking to avoid clipping his horns on every doorway in Jaedenar ever got old. "A poor start at persuading me not to add yours to the considerable pile."

There was no heat behind his words, and so she didn't tighten her posture as he prowled towards her across the moldering leaves. "And here I'd thought we'd settled all that," she said.

He stopped within arms' reach - for him, anyway - not quite close enough to be truly threatening, but enough to be an encroachment. The daylight faded the shine of his eyes, but it also whitened the pallor of his skin, revealing fine dark veins in an effect just inhuman enough to give her pause. She hadn't forgotten the strength coiled in his arm when she'd pried at it back in the corridor. This close, the faint miasma of power that rose from him drew a metallic prickle from the back of her throat. Too familiar to be discomfiting on its own - but every now and then some hitch in the cadence of their interactions drew her up short, reminded her that he was not just an acquaintance who temporarily had her at a disadvantage, but a nathrezim, and even ten thousand years wouldn't be enough to make her trust his intent.

His lip drew into the barest hint of a sneer. "Only if you believe me the same caliber of fool as your tamed paladin. Your uninspired posturing may have brought him to heel, but I'm hardly convinced of your good faith."

She flicked him a sardonic look from beneath her brows, managing despite how far up she had to glance to do it. As well he shouldn't believe in her sincerity, since he'd done so little to earn it. Her deception hadn't been directed at him anyway. "I haven't scampered off into the bushes yet, have I? Besides, let's not pretend you were after nuanced persuasion in there. Or do paladins usually find your tales of Lordaeron endearing? Maybe next time you can list off all the corpses you raised, compare mutual acquaintances."

He flexed the leathery arcs of his wings to their full span again, then folded them, smugly contemplative. "Your companion's wretchedness amused me. If that's the breed of creature that survived our reign, my brethren had more trouble in their campaign than I thought."

"They did  _lose_ ," she pointed out. She'd have liked to defend Aren, but a bruised sense of loyalty was better than giving Nerothos the idea she cared about the paladin beyond her eventual ticket home. The last thing the demon needed was more leverage. Besides, there were certain things she really wasn't interested in learning his opinion on.

"Your human kingdom  _lost_ ," he said, with as much relish as if he'd leveled the capital himself. The humid air stirred as he leaned towards her, curling his wings forward in that way he had when he felt he'd made an unassailable point. " _Our_  forces simply dispersed."

She supposed he had her there. Callista shook her head, inspecting the strangely delicate edge of one wing as she considered nudging it out of her space - much the way she did to Azlia - if it moved any closer. She didn't particularly want to argue the details of recent history with him, not least because only one of them had actually been present. How had they even gotten on this stupid tangent? She remembered Azlia's snide remarks and disgustedly rejected them. This was hardly a social call. " _My_  human kingdom is fine, though it could stand to revisit certain policies." She motioned a pair of fingers at the documents he carried. "Is that why you summoned me here?"

As ever, he accepted the swing in topic as gracefully as if he'd initiated it himself. "In part," he said. He turned the scuffed leather folio flat between them, offering it to her.

She made to take it, but he didn't release his grip, claws dimpling the cover. "If you are discovered," he said, "don't imagine you'll receive any more urgent intervention than the last fool."

Her eyes narrowed as she pulled lightly against his hold, purely to signal she didn't find the contact-by-proxy intimidating. It was rather like tugging on a wall. At what point, she mused, had he started to take her for an idiot. "Why would I ever expect protection from you?"

He smiled cruelly, matching her gaze just long enough for her to wonder if she really needed to elaborate, before unhooking his claws from the leather. "You should not find it difficult to make contact with the cult. They are ever seeking to expand their flock."

She shot him an irritated look. At least the riffle of activity associated with opening the folio and browsing its contents gave her the pretext to back up half a step. The first few pages seemed to be religious missives, followed by a collection of biographies. "How many followers are there?"

"Around three dozen, all told. Most are the same mortal flotsam that prostrate themselves to any religious cause: feckless pawns bowing to the first strong hand that reaches out to them. They are not relevant."

She skimmed the list of names, eyes slipping over a series of life histories that would have been too tedious to commit to paper in other circumstances. Average-sounding people from mundane places, victims not of demons or war, but the same squalid misfortunes that troubled half of Stormwind. Fires and failed crops, dead spouses and squandered inheritances. How had these poor fools ended up in Felwood, of all places? "And the others?"

"Seekers after power, who know not what they serve."

She assumed he meant Beltherac. She traced a finger down the page, searching without much expectation for a familiar name. "Then why not tell them. Even the blindest zealot would have trouble explaining away a dreadlord pulling his strings."

"Not this time." She could tell from the crackle of snapped twigs that he'd removed the small distance she'd put between them. "Beltherac does not manipulate from the shadows. He acts openly as a hierophant."

That was surprising enough to draw her gaze from the papers, face contorting scornfully. "Twisting Nether. What kind of witless hayseed joins a sect with a demon as high priest?" She considered for a moment, dragging her glance dryly up the dreadlord's broad chest. "No offense," she said.

Nerothos laughed. The sunlight drained from the air as he did. Color leached from the woods until the world turned black as charcoal around her, the sour tang of fel magic burning her tongue.

She drew reflexively on her own spells, but there was no attack to answer. No blaze of fire, no sourceless agony...instead, suggestion stroked the edges of her thoughts, every breath she took heavy with promise. Offers of nameless things. Desires, spoken and unspoken, eyeblink glimpses of fantasies all the more lustrous for the way they flitted past before they could be pinned and unraveled.

"You have devoted the whole of your brief life to the study of power." His eyes seared holes in the void that filled her vision, giving lie to the compelling velvet of his voice. "You lack reference to understand how persuasive my people can be to the frail and purposeless."

And he'd mocked  _her_ for posturing. Half-formed promises crumbled like husks at her direct attention, tugged with the deceptive strength of an undertow when viewed sidelong. How easy for a desperate mind to fill those flickering shells with all manner of things. No need for Nerothos to expend effort on deception; he could simply coax his victims into providing their own bait for the traps he set for them.

Callista felt the hammering of her own heart in the blackness. Even aware of its source, the dark kaleidoscope of the spell was mesmerizing. Measuring her words wasn't as easy as it should have been around the eager dryness in her throat. "A perspective I could do without, I think." The skeins of magic that held the illusion in place hung tangled and gauzy as cobwebs, almost as easily broken - she sheared through them with a twist of thought. Her vision returned as suddenly as though someone had unshaded a lamp.

She blinked in the flood of brightness. Golden afternoon sun and ancient dying trees, the oily shine of the mud around the polluted moonwell. Nerothos remained still as a flesh-and-blood gargoyle, features carved into an inscrutable expression.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Anything else you'd like to add?"

If the way she'd unworked his cantrip rankled, he didn't show it. On the contrary, he looked satisfied with the exchange. "Admittedly, that caste of spell has never been my particular domain."

If he'd been anything but what he was, she might have been tempted to grab him by the collar and shake.

She twitched her shoulders in the ghost of a shrug instead. This conversation had clearly taken a hard turn past usefulness. Maybe next time, she  _would_ send Aren in her stead, and serve them both right. "If I manage to find something, how do I contact you?"

He gestured towards the folder in her hand. "There is a blank page among those documents, linked to another in my possession. Words written on one will inscribe themselves on the other."

"I'm familiar with the enchantment," she said. There had been a time when she'd used a similar spell frequently, in fact - as a child, passing notes in class at the Academy. Despite her lingering acrimony, she tamped down amusement at the image of the demon trying to fold himself into a student desk in Magister Farnham's third-form arcane theory class.

"Good." The air behind him shattered into a prismatic swirl as he renewed the portal that had carried him here. "If you can manage without suspicion, you might also seek answers among the satyr clans. The local sects bear no true allegiance to the Council, or to me. They are easily lured by...inimical powers."

Callista wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Despite how plentiful the demons were on Azeroth, up until now she had very deliberately avoided dealing with them. Satyrs had fallen far from the arcane mastery of their Highborne roots. But unlike sayaad or even imps, they remained too parochial to have any useful knowledge of the Legion. What's more, they had all the personal charm of a monstrously arrogant night elf wrapped in a mangy fur carpet. She wasn't surprised to hear that their ties to the Legion were tenuous. Her understanding was that the average satyr clan was only a few rungs above the average furbolg tribe on the ladder of Kalimdor civilization - though what they lacked in finesse they made up for in savagery.

"Remind me again why Jaedenar tolerates those flea-bitten relics?"

Nerothos was a winged silhouette against the green blaze of the portal, but she didn't need to see his edged smile to hear it in his voice. "The same reason it tolerates you, of course." He stepped back into the portal, which glowed intensely for a moment before winking out.

" _That_ , I sincerely doubt," Callista said, addressing the empty space where he'd been. She tapped the folio thoughtfully against her thigh, then pulled the parchment from her pocket, activating her own exit back to the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yep, I am still alive! xD And still determined to finish this eventually, no matter how many self-imposed deadlines go whooshing by...


	18. Many Meetings

By early afternoon, Aren had decided: Jaedenar was the most loathsome place he'd ever been outside of a battlefield.

This so-called market was worst of all. Merchants shouted their pitches from stalls hastily raised in the large cavern that fronted the Shadow Hold, their stew of languages echoing crazily from the stone walls. Large violet banners and an eclectic collection of hides - deer, nightsaber, and bear; what Aren was disgusted to identify as furbolg and even a lone satyr skin - draped from the ceiling in an unsuccessful effort to dampen the sound. Torches lashed to poles poorly illuminated the underground twilight. Most of the stalls hawked magical reagents or fel-tainted artifacts of one kind or another, but a number of food vendors had also set up shop, and the greasy cooking smoke and reek of unfamiliar spices tickled the back of his throat.

Aren coughed, edging his way through the grubby crowd of buyers towards the daylight streaming from the front entrance. Rarely had he felt so small and out of place. Most of the jostling bodies around him belonged to orcs, with a smattering of satyrs and felguards and an even lesser minority of other races. Almost every mortal in sight was either clad in fel-runed robes or had the look of a sellsword. This market catered to a specific clientele, and Aren was obviously not it.

He swallowed his outraged disgust as a pair of Gurubashi slave traders bulled their way past him, their unfortunate cargo - night elves and humans, chained together at ankle and wrist - shuffling between them with downcast eyes. Aren had seen illegal markets before, but this was the blackest parts of all of them balled up and emboldened. Poisons, slaves, cursed weapons, the tools of necromancy...all of these, he was sure, could be found in most large cities if the buyer was determined. But at least the transaction would be dangerous and highly discreet. The brazenness of these merchants - secure in the protection of their demonic patrons - somehow magnified the foulness of their trade.

The air was fresher outside the cavern mouth, though the sounds of the market remained a dull roar. A pair of goblins selling soup from an enormous copper pot had set up rickety tables in a clearing to one side of the path, and Aren sank gratefully onto a stool. Once they'd toured Jaedenar's main landmarks, he found he lacked Ander's inexhaustible appetite for letting the succubus drag them from sight to sight. He'd long had his fill of crumbling ruins, blighted trees, and corrupt inhabitants. Why would anyone live like this?

He'd hoped that exploring Jaedenar would provide some clue to Vorthaal and Nathanial's whereabouts, but if anything the task seemed more enormous than ever. Despite the outpost's small size - only a handful of buildings outside the Hold seemed to be permanently in use - it displayed none of the organization he would have expected from a Burning Legion encampment. In fact, relatively little of the population seemed to be part of the Legion hierarchy at all. Jaedenar was a crossroads for dozens of races, factions, and sects, the majority of whom seemed to be transient, here only long enough to barter or broker some murky agreement before moving on to more respectable holdings. If they'd been sold as chattel, their companions could be a hundred leagues away by now.

A pair of succubi lounged at the next table over, whispering to one another and casting him sidelong glances. One of them giggled, shielding her mouth with her hand as she made some remark to the other, and Aren feigned sudden intense interest in the goblins' stewpot. Their voices were not particularly quiet, but he couldn't understand their demonic, only further convincing him that he was the subject of discussion. He was so pointedly ignoring them that he didn't notice someone had approached his own table until a bag thumped down onto it.

Startled, he twisted around more jerkily than was polite.

Callista stared back at him, nonplussed by his reaction.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You surprised me."

"Clearly," she said. Her eyes focused behind him, scanning for the source of his unease, but when nothing unusual presented itself, she half-shrugged and pulled out the stool on the other side of his tiny round table. "Did Azlia give you the grand tour?"

The pair of succubi, to his relief, eyeballed Callista and seemed to find something about her arrival off-putting enough to stop their sideways glances. "I suppose you could call it that," he said. "She showed us the Sweetwater offices, the fighting pit, a  _brothel,_  of all places…" He trailed off, alarmed by the way Callista's eyes had widened.

"Tell me you didn't let her take you in there."

"Of course not," he said.

"Not even Ander?" she asked suspiciously, craning her head around to search for him.

"Absolutely not. Wynda's with them now."

"Good," she said, though her mouth kept its misgiving set.

Her clear horror took Aren aback. He'd found Azlia's choice in poor taste himself, but he would've expected the warlock to be less sensitive. "What's the matter with it?" he asked, morbidly curious. "Aside from the obvious," he added hastily.

She looked at him with mild disbelief before amusement loosened her frown. "Ever catch a whiff of that awful perfume the goblins peddle before Noblegarden?"

"Yes," Aren said reluctantly. Actually, just the year before he'd had a particularly embarrassing incident involving a highly unamused Sentinel...he quickly stomped on the memory before the discomfort could rise to his face.

"Well, picture that, but infinitely worse, because all the spells are calibrated for creatures with much more experience resisting mental suggestion. The enchantments in just the foyer would knock a pitlord to his knees. Don't go in there unless you want to lose your whole purse along with any secret you've ever had."

She made it sound less like a whorehouse and more like a semi-consensual mugging. Appropriate enough for an establishment run by demons. "That does sound...more disturbing than usual. I'll make sure Ander knows."

"It actually used to be even worse, if you can believe that," Callista said, toying absently with the tie of her bag. "Even the path outside was a swamp of enchantments, but it was so...um... _distracting_...that Lord Banehollow put his foot down and made them keep it to the interior. Turns out the local satyr clans and half the Shadow Council have no better self control than the average idiot trader." She flicked a disdainful glance at the bustling cavern entrance for emphasis.

Typically delightful. Now Aren wondered what else in Jaedenar might be even more dangerous than it seemed at first blush. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving Wynda and Ander alone, before the image of some succubus attempting to seduce the stone-faced dwarf woman rose before his mind's eye, and was so outlandishly unlikely that he instantly felt better.

"How did your errand go?" he asked. Based on her easy manner - and the fact that she'd apparently had time for shopping - he assumed nothing had been amiss. Given what he'd seen of the wares available in the cavern, he opted not to ask about the sack on the table.

An expression he couldn't quite interpret crossed her face. "As well as could be expected, I suppose. Let's talk about it someplace quieter. I did have another thought, though. A solution to our money problem."

Aren was not aware that they had had a money problem. "I thought you said you had credit with the cartel here."

"I do," she said. "But the borrowing rate has climbed several points past usury into the absurd since the last time I was here, and I'm beginning to worry this might not be a short stay. I'd rather not have that debt attached to my name if I can help it."

He frowned. "This is an emergency. Whatever the expense, the - my people - will cover it later."

"I'm sure they will. And they still can. But in the meantime, I'd rather not be the one holding the bag."

Once again, Aren suspected there was more to this than she was telling him. "So, what do you suggest instead?"

He thought he'd been prepared for anything she might say - if she'd proposed they accept a spot on the Shadow Council payroll, he would not have been shocked - but the direction she chose was unexpected anyway.

"I still have access to a handful of Dunhaven family accounts. Assuming they still exist. Laszlo Sellgood over at the Sweetwater offices should have no troubling sorting that out. I can write a letter saying the right things, but I think you should bring it to him."

Aren turned that over in his mind for a few moments. Might as well start at the top, he supposed. "Family accounts?"

Callista rarely spoke of her family at all. He knew, from the background he'd been provided on her before this assignment, that they had cut her off for fel magic use, and so he had never tried to pry, assuming the estrangement to be painful. He couldn't think of a tactful way to broach the topic now, either. "I thought your family disowned you."

He winced. That had come out much blunter than he'd intended.

Fortunately, she only laughed. "Disinherited. Not disowned. Cut the purse strings, not the apron strings. Sadly."

Relieved as he was that she wasn't offended, her answer still triggered a twinge of exasperation. Even when she meant no deception, extracting a straight answer from Callista with a direct question could be like trying to cut water with a broadsword. "And that means…"

She cocked her head, the apologetic scrunch of her nose telling him his annoyance had leaked into his tone. "I am my parents' firstborn child. When they die, the family business - several businesses, really - would have passed to me. But alas, having a known fel practitioner as a figurehead is institutional suicide in Stormwind, so when I was expelled from the Academy they stripped me of my inheritance and passed it to my sister. They didn't exactly put me on the street, though, despite being very angry."

"I see," Aren said. He rubbed the scruff on his cheek doubtfully. "If your ties are already...strained...are you sure you really want to drag them into this?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "Oh, the accounts are very well obfuscated. Even they probably won't notice the charges for some time, let alone anyone else tracing them back." She must have read his skepticism - not difficult, as the look he'd leveled at her had been quite clear - because the corner of her mouth rose wryly. "How about this? If you're still feeling sorry for them after this is all over, I'll take you by the family estate. Then you can see what a nest of vipers would look like if they all stood up on two legs and learned to count coin."

Aren laughed despite himself. "You make them sound so charming, how could I refuse?"

"I don't know what you expected. I hope you didn't think I got this way on my own."

He shook his head. "So why is it important that I deliver this message?"

She folded her hands on the table and met his gaze, abruptly serious. "Because you don't know anyone in Jaedenar, and Laszlo is a very good person to know. Especially if anything should...happen."

"Ah."

"Among other things, he's about the only creature in this whole pit you can be sure doesn't serve the Shadow Council." She paused, narrowing her eyes in amusement. "Mostly because they couldn't afford his retainer."

Her conspiratorial expression was so endearing that he reached across the table, covering one of her hands with his. Almost as appealing was the subtle glance she gave him from the corner of her eye: as though she couldn't quite believe he would put himself through this, but was pleased and amazed that he seemed to want to.

Aren still wasn't sure what they were to one another. But the warm twist in his belly let him know that he hadn't given up hope that they might be something.

"You also make him sound charming," he said.

She laughed and squeezed his fingers. "He actually is, in his own way." Her gazed unfocused briefly, as though she were listening to something Aren couldn't hear. "Azlia should be here soon with the others. Let's go back to the inn and I'll tell you what my 'contact' had to say. We can decide from there."

* * *

Aren was unhappy, though not surprised, to learn that Callista's meeting had been with the dreadlord himself.

Wynda, as usual, seemed less perturbed. Aren had spent no small time over the years praying to the Light for the same unflappable calm.

Unfortunately, the leads the demon had provided seemed weak indeed, though Callista claimed this didn't surprise her. She was of the opinion that Nerothos would resist pointing them too directly to their missing companions - and might even deliberately obscure the way - if it seemed they might succeed before getting the information he sought. The lack of rancor with which she accepted this astounded Aren. Her philosophical shrug and observation that "demons will be demons" seemed much too indulgent a reaction from someone he'd once seen threaten a pair of crooked merchants with felfire. Warlocks were a breed he suspected he'd never exactly understand.

When all was said and done, however, the immediate - frustrating - conclusion was that there was little he could do at the moment to help search for their friends.

Which is how he found himself, not much later, sitting on a plush velvet chair in the waiting area outside Laszlo Sellgood's office.

Aren had no idea what this building might have been before - some kind of workshop, maybe, or small storehouse - but he was sure its current incarnation in no way resembled the original. Every surface that could be gilded, encrusted with baroque decorations, or covered in gold-veined black marble had been. A jade-topped reception desk partitioned off the right third of the room. When he'd entered, it had been occupied by a smartly-dressed goblin woman with immaculate hair, but she'd disappeared through a door after taking his letter and directing him to the chairs. A chandelier bristling with shards of crystal dangled from the middle of the ceiling, low enough that anyone much taller than Aren would need to keep to the room's edges or risk a faceful of glass. The effect of all of it in the tiny foyer was both garish and claustrophobic. His discomfort only increased when he realized that what he'd taken for an especially hideous suit of gold-plated armor wedged into one of the corners was, in fact, breathing. On closer inspection, it actually contained a very live and probably unhappy felguard.

Aren ran over the contents of the letter in his head, trying to limit his glances at the unfortunate demon. Callista had shown him what she'd written before sealing it, and it contained only some obscure financial queries and an introduction. Despite claiming Laszlo as an old friend, she'd seen no reason to trouble him with the truth of their circumstances. Instead, she identified Aren as the leader of the small party of guards she'd recently hired to accompany her through Felwood. It was a simple enough backstory - one they'd all agreed upon to explain his, Wynda's, and Ander's presence in the outpost - but it had been so long since he'd approached any conversation with the intent to deceive that he suspected he was overthinking it. Mostly, though, he found it hard to shake the idea that this was a kind of test. After everything that had happened, here was Callista's not-so-subtle way of showing him what greater inclusion in her affairs would entail. At least Laszlo wasn't a demon.

The carved door swung open, interrupting his musings.

"Mr. Sellgood will see you now," the goblin woman said.

She ushered him into an office even more opulent than the cramped lobby. A goblin in a tailored suit perched on a high-backed chair behind a gigantic ebony desk. Piles of ledgers jostled for space with an army of golden knick-knacks that clicked and whirred mechanically. The goblin stood and strode around the desk to greet Aren as he entered, hand already extended for an enthusiastic shake. "Aren Westwood, is it? Laszlo Sellgood, at your service."

Despite his size, Laszlo had a grip like a vice. Aren returned the gesture as best he could around his crimped fingers. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Laszlo released him and stepped back, looking him boldly up and down until Aren thought he knew what it felt like to be the wares at a horse auction. "So, Callista finally wised up and hired some protection. Good! I've been telling her to for years, what with the scrapes she gets into, but every time, she says to me, 'Laszlo, what do I need to spend coin for, all the muscle I need I can pull out of the Nether for free.' Bullshit! Those demons ain't good for nothing but destroying property, can't anyone tell me different." He shot Aren a challenging look, as though daring him to try.

Aren had no problem with this statement doubly, both as himself and in his persona as a hired sword. "Er, no, I agree," he said.

Laszlo nodded sagely. "'Course you do. Your lady employer may put up with demons, but she don't tolerate fools. You ever been to Jaedenar before?"

"No," Aren said honestly. Laszlo's rapid-fire patter could be hard to follow, but the brevity of the responses he seemed to require was a relief.

"Ha! Well you're in for a treat, let me tell you. Come on, let's sit down. One of my clerks is checking on those accounts, might as well put our feet up 'til he comes back."

Laszlo returned to the throne-like leather chair behind the desk while Aren took one of the brocaded seats near its front. Both Laszlo's desk and chair must have been raised substantially, because Aren found himself looking up at him.

"Drink?" Laszlo said, brandishing a crystal decanter half full of amber liquid.

Paladins of the Argent Dawn were not permitted to drink on duty. Freelance mercenaries, Aren suspected, very much did. "Of course."

"Good man," Laszlo said, pouring generous helpings into two highball glasses. He slid the fuller of the two over to Aren. "This stuff is top-notch, Dun Morogh's finest eighteen-year. Never drink anything laid down after the war, myself. All that Scourging did something to the soil, never tasted right afterwards."

Aren flinched internally at the mention of the Scourge, but his only outward reaction was to take a sip of whiskey. He'd never been much for hard liquor, and had steeled himself for the burn, but found there wasn't much fire in it at all, only a pleasant smokiness. "I think I see your point."

Laszlo grunted in approval and leaned back in his chair, taking a pull of his own drink. "So, what brings you folks to this delightful locale anyway?"

Aren shrugged, grateful for the way the alcohol's warmth in his belly soothed his nerves. "Callista ran into some trouble in Stormwind. She thought it would be best to leave the city for a while."

"Heh. Figures. Know if she plans to stick around?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

Laszlo leaned his elbows on his desk, tenting his long green fingers. "Interesting. I'm surprised." He watched Aren keenly. "She was never one for slumming it with the Council riff-raff before. Wonder what changed."

Aren shrugged again and took what he hoped was a noncommittal slug of his whiskey. He suddenly felt dreadfully sure he'd said the wrong thing, but was equally unsure how he could have avoided it.

His indifferent act must have not have been convincing, because Laszlo chuckled at his discomfort. "Relax, relax. Didn't mean to grill you. Old habits and all that, I was just curious. I've known Callista a long time."

Aren was sure that the goblin absolutely did mean to grill him, but decided to let it pass. Instead, he took advantage of the rare moment of silence as Laszlo admired the ruddy glow of the light through his liquor. "So how  _do_  you know her?"

"Hmm? Callista? Her family and mine go way back, done a lot of joint ventures. Nothing like this though, naturally," he said, circling his hand to indicate Jaedenar. "Mama Dunhaven wouldn't touch anything this risky with someone else's ten-foot pole. Neither would my mama, if she only knew, but that's just more coin in my pocket, am I right?"

Aren assumed the answer was yes, but Laszlo didn't appear to be expecting a response. "What's her family like?" he asked instead, remembering Callista's earlier unflattering remarks.

He knew he'd made a mistake when Laszlo set his glass down to stare at him, a wide grin breaking across his face. "Oh-ho-ho, so that's how it is."

He hesitated with his own glass halfway to his lips. "How what is?"

"Oh, come on," Laszlo said, laughing. "I wasn't born yesterday. You let some broad you barely know drag you out into the middle of demon-city for - how much money? No no, don't actually tell me, I don't even wanna know - and then you get put in a room with me, the guy who knows more about the whole establishment than anything without horns and a bad attitude, and you ask about the woman's family?"

That was not at all what had happened - if anything, he had dragged Callista into Felwood, not the other way around - but the facts were hard to dispute without abandoning his cover story. "That's not how it went," he muttered, trying to convince himself the warmth in his face was only from the liquor. He took another fortifying gulp to confirm it, almost emptying the glass.

Laszlo drained his own whiskey, continuing to chuckle. "Hoo boy. Of all people. Here, push that thing over, I'm about ready to call it a day anyway," he said, topping himself up and then refilling Aren. "You seem like a nice guy, so let me give you some advice."

Aren had not particularly enjoyed what had followed when Callista had said something similar earlier, but apparently this was just his day for uncomfortable discussions. He'd prepared himself for this encounter to be potentially embarrassing, but he'd assumed it would be because he'd been caught in a lie, not because some sharp-eyed goblin decided he was a lovesick rube. He looked resignedly at Laszlo, curling his fingers around his glass. At least the whiskey was good. "Sure. Let's hear it."

"Now, I'm not really talking about women here...okay, yeah, I guess I am, but not  _only_  women. Just...in general. There's only two kinds of people in the world," Laszlo said, punctuating the sentence with a sip. "You got principles people, and you got people people." He paused, waiting with theatrical flair to see if Aren was listening.

Aren, for lack of a better response, nodded and began making inroads on his own second whiskey.

"Me? I'm a principles man. I'm here to turn a profit, and it's as simple as that. Don't interfere with my business, and no matter who you are or what you did, we got no problem. Easy, right? I'm a predictable man. My clients like it that way."

Aren couldn't decide if Laszlo was threatening him, or if this was his idea of a neutral statement. He suspected this wasn't the last time he'd encounter this ambiguity in Jaedenar.

"Now, my second and third wives? They were people people. Number three in particular, not a shred of moral fiber in that one. What can I say? Something about the ruthless ones just does it for me. But the thing about people people is, they're loyal. Once you're in, you're in, they'll move earth and sky for you and no neverminds about what lever they need to do it." He seemed to think about that for a second, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Well, fewer than average neverminds, anyway. Sounds pretty great, right? The problem is, how can you ever be sure that you're the one they're really in bed with, and not just another one of the levers?"

The question seemed to not be rhetorical. Aren mulled through several unsatisfactory reactions before settling on a sympathetic shrug.

"Exactly!" he said, jabbing a finger at him. "Can't ever tell. Triss left me for a priest of the Light out of Gnomeregan, if you can believe that. Shuffled a third of my assets through so many shell companies no Trade Prince on Azeroth could prove they weren't hers and then took off for Booty Bay. Dirtiest I've ever been done, but the part of me that wasn't dying to strangle her fell in love all over again."

Aren wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or Laszlo's relentless torrent of words (and wives), but partway through the last diatribe he'd lost the thread. Rather than attempt to muster a response, he sipped steadily at his whiskey. Laszlo seemed to need little encouragement from him, at any rate.

"So what it really comes down to is, you're a grown man and I'm not going to try to tell you what to do. I'm just saying, if your boss was a couple of feet shorter and green, I'd probably have proposed to her at least twice. And I am obviously not an intelligent man, so you can take that as you will."

Aren sincerely had no idea how he should take any of that. "I'll, um, make sure to consider it," he said.

Laszlo laughed. "Nah, you won't. Just don't say I never warned you."

Aren was sure he would make every effort to never revisit this conversation again. "That I can promise."

Laszlo tipped his glass to him in a toast.

Before they had finished draining their whiskeys, a door behind Laszlo's desk struggled open, thudding against the stack of ledgers impeding its swing. A goblin in a rumpled tweed suit squeezed through the gap and slid a piece of parchment onto the corner of Laszlo's desk.

"Here's the account info you asked for, sir," he said.

"Thanks, kid," Laszlo said. He snatched the parchment and fitted the monocle dangling from a gold chain at his collar into his eye. He peered at the text briefly before letting the monocle drop again. "Looks like everything's in order." Folding the paper, he dripped a glob of blue wax onto the seam and pressed a jewel-topped seal into it before passing it over to Aren. "Give this to Callista with my regards, tell her she owes me a drink. Tomorrow, close of day, if she's available. Here, take this too." He fished around in a small box on his desk, producing a cream-colored rectangle of parchment with gilded lettering. "That's my card. You come talk to me if you need anything at all, you hear?"

Aren set down his empty glass and took the proffered items. "Thanks. For the whiskey and the...talk," he said.

Laszlo was halfway around the desk before Aren had finished speaking, shaking his hand vigorously and guiding him towards the door to the lobby. "Any time at all, my pleasure. You take care out there, you hear? And don't let those demons push you around, they don't run as tight a ship around here as they think they do." Laszlo seemed intent on escorting him all the way outside, and he shot a stern look at the felguard crammed into the gilded armor in the corner as they passed. "Yeah, that's right, you heard me. You go tell that to your masters, I've about had it up to here."

With one last firm shake of his hand, Aren found himself deposited into the warm Felwood evening.

* * *

There was a time when Nerothos had found these council meetings to be purely useful, but that was before Banehollow had acceded to Beltherac's presence at them.

The three nathrezim faced one another across a table spread with a large map of Felwood and the bordering territories. Uniformly, they had decided to shun the high-backed chairs in favor of standing. The Shadow Hold's captured kaldorei furnishings were usually comfortable enough, but these particular chairs seemed designed to gouge at the joint between wing and shoulder at the most intolerable angle. Banehollow had come to dislike these weekly meetings as much as he did, and Nerothos was sure the choice of venue was no accident. Still, he could not fault his companion for Beltherac's inclusion. Whatever else he might be - and Nerothos could supply a considerable list of damning qualities - Beltherac was still nathrezim, and what separated their people from the Legion's horde of lesser demons was their ability to limit their personal vendettas to appropriate moments.

"Have you had any additional word from Sathrovarr?" Banehollow asked. He stood at the head of the table, both clawed hands planted on its surface as he stared pensively at the figures marking Jaedenar's garrisons.

"Yes," Nerothos said. "We are not to be recalled. Our instructions are to hold our forces in readiness and begin selecting targets for additional strikes should the assault on Quel'Danas succeed."

"Given the strength we're bringing to bear, how could it do otherwise?" Beltherac said.

Even in their native tongue - more subtle than Eredun - Nerothos could detect no trace of sarcasm in his words. The secretive contempt in his eyes told him it must be there anyway. He chose to ignore it. "Our directive involves preparing for all contingencies, probable or not," he said.

"Of course. I am very familiar with your deftness with  _contingencies_ , brother."

Nerothos would have given dearly to know whose hand had worked the levers of Legion bureaucracy that had freed this creature after so many millennia. He was aware of the official justification, of course: the need to bolster their ranks after the Betrayer's humiliating assault on Nathreza. An excuse broad enough to cover a thousand real agendas. He couldn't even be certain if the order had filtered down the nathrezim hierarchy or come through Legion channels, though, personally, he suspected the latter. The eredar believed with such charming zealotry that the inexorable grasp of Argus would sear away all dissent. Tichondrius and Mephistroth knew better the inclinations of their own people.

Nerothos sneered. "I know you may find the rapidly expanded complexity of your surroundings overwhelming, but do try to engage with your orders instead of dwelling on your past errors."

One of Banehollow's claws twitched slightly against the map - a miniscule irritated motion, but Nerothos saw it. Banehollow had no love for Beltherac, but even less for the kind of internal squabbling that could upset the position they held in Jaedenar. "Has anyone informed Diathorus and Gorgannon?" he asked, ignoring the hostilities with exaggerated care.

"No. I've left that pleasure to you," Nerothos said. Diathorus and Gorgannon were nathrezim who had taken up residence in Ashenvale, near the site of Mannoroth's fall. Embarrassing casualties of a truth that all the Legion's races must eventually face: that the Dark Titan's crusade would last much longer than it took most creatures to find their level in the hierarchy. Some demons, after several millennia of unsuccessful bids for advancement (and the agonizing periods of torture that often accompanied successive or particularly humiliating failures), decided it was better to simply cease trying. Over the years, Diathorus and Gorgannon had honed mediocrity the way their more motivated brethren honed violence and subterfuge. Their usual scheme involved finding an isolated - but not too isolated, lest an unusually formidable group of mortals take exception to their excesses - stronghold on a besieged world, and setting themselves up as petty warlords. They took direction with the precise degree of competence necessary to avoid reprimand, yet not tempt their superiors to challenge them further. The precision of the balance they'd achieved was remarkable in its own right, but exasperating when one's own orders required their cooperation.

"Very well," Banehollow said. "And you will provide suitable instruction to Xavilis?"

"I will," Nerothos said.

"Actually, I would like to address that subject," Beltherac said. "Why is Prince Xavilis not included in these meetings? He controls the bulk of our troops in Felwood, it would seem to me his counsel would be desirable."

It would seem to Nerothos that Beltherac was tired of being overruled in their discussions. Better for the unequivocal refusal to come from Banehollow, though. "'Controls' is a rather generous term for Xavilis' activities," he said instead.

"Xavilis has not been recognized by Legion High Command," Banehollow said. "He holds no more status than our mortal collaborators in this forest, and has proven himself hardly more reliable. I see no reason to grant him special privileges."

"Agreed," Nerothos said. "If he wishes to prove himself, he will have ample opportunity in the battles to come."

Though the curt rejection must have galled, Beltherac's courteous mask never rippled. "I see you are decided," he said. "Very well. I have no further items to discuss."

"Nor I," Nerothos said.

Banehollow nodded. "Then we will adjourn for now."

Beltherac exited first, as was his custom, allowing the door to shut behind him.

Banehollow lingered. He waited to be sure the other demon was out of earshot before resuming the discussion. "That was far less adversarial than usual."

"Yes," Nerothos agreed. "He's planning something."

Banehollow flicked a small marker representing a Sentinel outpost with his claw, knocking it onto its side. "Who isn't? So long as he tows the line until the invasion, I see no reason for concern. You have made your suspicion very clear, but the evidence is not."

"For now," Nerothos said.

* * *

The company left much to be desired, but at least the beer was cold.

Callista took another sip of dark oaky ale as she scanned her fellow patrons of the Shattered Moon. She'd picked a table squeezed up against the plinth of the defaced statue on the back wall, giving her a full view of the customers trickling in as the sun set. This was the favored establishment of Jaedenar's non-orcish population; if any of Callista's acquaintances were in town, they would likely turn up here. So, too, would any of Beltherac's "missionaries" out fishing for converts. Nerothos' documents had contained descriptions of some of the cults' higher ranking members, detailed enough she expected to have no trouble picking them out of a crowd. Providing any showed, of course.

Interesting for a different reason had been the brief on the cult's mortal figurehead - a man named Roland Lavonte. Something about that name had set a faint bell ringing in her mind. No one she knew herself, certainly. Something she had heard once, perhaps? Lavonte was the disgraced son of a minor Stormwind noble. Many of the city's better families paid their children's admission to the Academy, regardless of magical aptitude, and she and Roland were close enough in age that they might have attended together. An ancient piece of schoolyard gossip, maybe? She shook her head and took another drink. It would probably come to her if she didn't worry it too much.

Halfway across the room, a doughy human man swerved his way from the bar to a table, bottle clutched in his hand. His next destination likely would have been the floor, if not for the timely intervention of his succubus, who helped him collapse haphazardly onto a stool. Callista recognized the man's face and grinned.

Collecting her beer, she edged her way towards where he slouched over his liquor.

Daeron Miller was not a man she knew very well, but he had never had a reputation as a drunk. That was what he was now, however - so much so that he could barely pilot his cupful of dubiously brown liquor from the table to his mouth.

His succubus noticed Callista's approach well before he did. A tawny-skinned woman with red-brown hair, she clung to his arm with a small satisfied smile that hardened as her gaze swept upward from Callista's feet. She assessed her clothes and face with barely veiled hostility, lingering on the neckline of Callista's tunic before meeting her eyes.

Callista tilted her head in acknowledgement, nodding at her in a way she hoped was disarming. This little excursion was likely to do enough damage to her reputation on its own - she had no desire to start a bar fight with a succubus over a paunchy middle-aged warlock.

"Hello, Daeron," she said.

Daeron's head jerked up and he looked at her soddenly. Dim recognition wobbled across his features. "Hey...um…"

"Callista. Dunhaven. We've met a few times at The Slaughtered Lamb."

He started automatically to smile before apprehension caught up and wilted it into a grimace. He shoved his stool clumsily away from the table, dislodging his succubus. "Did they send you after me?"

Callista had expected that kind of reaction. She sat down across from him with reassuring slowness, setting down her glass of beer. "Of course not. Last I spoke to anyone at the Lamb, no one had any clue where you were. The authorities ran me out of town a few weeks ago. I assumed they'd done the same to you."

He gauged her silently - she imagined she mostly looked blurry. After a moment, his panic faded, though his expression remained guarded. He scooted his stool back towards the table, close enough to reach his drink. "Yeah. Yeah, that's about right." He wiped his chin sheepishly as he misaimed a sip. "So, uh…"

Callista took a long swallow of her beer. Glancing around the tavern proved no one had noticed Daeron's reaction. An altercation had begun near the doorway, and the sparse crowd cheered as the felguard bouncer backhanded a tipsy-looking man across the mouth before grabbing him by the collar.

Callista's nose wrinkled. "Why, of all places on Azeroth, did you run to this one?"

His succubus leaned between them, all large limpid eyes and poisoned sweetness. "I could ask  _you_  the same question, mortal," she said.

Daeron's gaze slid clumsily to his companion. By Callista's estimation, he appeared to mostly be addressing her breasts. "It was Zev - Zeviyra's - idea. Missed her sisters. Didn't have a better plan, so…" He shrugged.

Callista blinked, torn between amazement and dismay. Diffidence was not a trait usually associated with mages, let alone warlocks. Daeron had always had a reputation for being henpecked by his wife, but she was beginning to suspect general spinelessness on his part rather than unusual tyranny on hers. "I see," she said, managing, with effort, to keep her voice bland. She glanced at Zeviyra. "Explains how you ran into Azlia, I suppose."

That caught her interest. The naked hostility on the succubus's face vanished, replaced by sly delight. "So.  _You're_  Azlia's mistress. I've heard a lot about  _you_."

"Whatever it was, best keep it to yourself for both your sakes," Callista said dryly.

Zeviyra crossed her arms, continuing to study her with a smirk. "Well, now I really must know. What  _did_  bring you to our poor little tavern in the woods? Dear Azlia seemed to think you were both too  _good_  for places like this."

Callista tossed a look at Daeron, but he was alternately applying himself to his liquor and gazing listlessly around the room. A typical warlock would find his minion supplanting him in conversation to be insolent in the extreme, but Daeron seemed not to care. Callista decided that she didn't either. She was after information, not competent colleagues. Swirling the dregs of beer in her glass, she sighed. "Equal parts desperation and spite, I suppose," she said. "I am  _not_  a Legion sympathizer, though I do have contacts here. But if Stormwind has already decided I'm a traitor...well."

"Poor little human. Your kind is so very frightened of real power."

Callista was tempted to point out that any demon bumbling enough to find herself bound to Daeron Miller was hardly qualified to discuss 'real power,' but she doubted that would lead to a useful talk. Instead, she pressed her lips into a frown, casting down her eyes as though conceding the point. "I must admit, it's been awhile since I was last in Jaedenar. I came over here hoping my...colleague - " she glanced at Daeron, who only stared intently into his cup - "...might be willing to share some information."

"Fascinating." Zeviyra said. "Information about what?"

Callista took another sip of beer, then pulled her mouth into a sheepish grimace. "Our situation in general, I suppose. I know that power in Jaedenar shifts constantly, but since I never expected to end up here, I haven't kept an eye on its politics at all. I only wanted to know if there were any particular dangers I should be aware of. Other than, you know...the usual." She waved a hand at their surroundings.

Zeviyra smiled, flashing sharp feline fangs. "Ooooh. So you want to gossip."

Callista matched her devious smile. "Exactly."

Zeviyra slid her stool closer - unbalancing Daeron, who had slumped against her shoulder - and playfully twined her tail around Callista's calf. "You should have just said so. I  _love_  show and tell."

"I have no doubt you do," Callista said, gently pushing her tail away before it strayed any further up her thigh.

Zeviyra considered her. One claw tapped against her shapely chin as she did. "Now, let me see. When were you last here?"

"About a year or so ago."

"Oh my. You have missed a lot. Hmmm…" She pursed her plump lips, pretending to think. "Well, the Sweetwater goblins have opened a courier service. You can get whatever you want delivered, so convenient. That's not really a  _danger_ , though, now is it. Let me think...what else...I know. Have you heard there's a new dreadlord in the Shadow Hold?"

Callista raised her brows inquisitively.

"His name is Nerothos. Has a reputation for powermongering, even for a nathrezim. Rumor has it he's trying to bring the satyr clans in line, and they don't like it, oh no."

"I see," Callista said, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. "But I thought I heard there were three dreadlords now? Where's the third one come in?"

Zeviyra looked puzzled before recognition brightened her face. "Oh, you must mean Beltherac. Don't bother yourself about  _him_ , I've never seen him in town. You know how dreadlords are, all work and no play, not even a little. Spends all his time skulking in the forest with a bunch of dirty cultists."

Callista made a face. "Ugh, cultists. Just what I want to hear after being evicted by a bunch of Light-worshipping idiots. Tell me they don't drink at the Moon."

Zeviyra giggled. "Actually…"

Callista didn't need to feign her look of disgust. "You're kidding."

"Don't let it put you off your liquor, darling. Typical zealots, only the highest ranks are allowed out for any fun, and they're not hard to spot." Her eyes swiveled to the right of Callista's shoulder, and she smiled and leaned closer. "There's one back there now, in fact. Their leader, if rumors are to be believed. Doesn't look very devout to me, but what would  _I_  know about it. Dark Titan knows where his flock thinks he is."

Callista glanced casually behind her, and had no trouble identifying the subject of Zeviyra's speech. A tall lanky man clad in robes of hideous orange-brown silk stood with his back to them near the bar. His lowered hood revealed a black mop of wavy hair tied with a cord - that matched well enough with the description of Roland Lavonte that she'd been given - but when he retrieved his beer and turned to show his face, there were two things that Callista knew at once.

The first was that, despite her earlier suspicions, she was positive she had never seen this man before. The second - related to the first - was that Roland Lavonte was almost preposterously handsome.

It was difficult not to stare. She'd assumed a cult leader would have charisma, but she'd been expecting the more traditional fiery-eyed, long-bearded, seeker-of-truths-in-the-wilderness look. Roland did have a beard, but it was carefully trimmed close to his face, accentuating a strong square jaw. Tanned skin set off the startling green of his eyes to fine effect. He had a scholar's lean frame, but moved with a fighter's confidence as he navigated the press around the bar. Not entirely her type - Callista preferred her men a little more powerfully built - but he was a perfect enough example of  _a_ type that, in slightly different circumstances, even knowing what she did, she might have been tempted to entertain religion for a night.

Zeviyra giggled maliciously. "Suddenly seeing the charms of faith, are we?"

"Not hardly," Callista lied.

"Good, because I'm tired of answering questions. Now it's my turn." She rested her chin in her palms, fixing her eyes on Callista's face with cruel anticipation.

Callista tilted her head, curious.

"You must tell me," Zeviyra said, heart-shaped mouth twisting into a malicious smile. "When Daeron's frumpy little wife realized we were gone, what did she  _do_?"

* * *

Sometimes, Callista reflected, it was nice to have a reminder that her own succubus was not actually the pettiest creature on Azeroth.

But in the end, it took longer than she would have liked to extricate herself from Zeviyra. Most sayaad were chatty by nature, but she suspected Zeviyra had been saddled long enough with Daeron's morose silence to be even more grateful than usual for any outlet. Callista had finally escaped by pleading the need to get a new beer, promising to catch up with the pair once she'd had time to settle in.

Scanning the backs lined against the bar, she was relieved to spot Roland's garish orange robes almost immediately.

She pretended to study her empty glass as she considered. Given her intention to strike up a conversation, there were a few ways she might proceed. Simply going up to the man and introducing herself might work, given the setting, but it still seemed too direct and potentially suspicious. A safer option would be convincing him that he had noticed her first. Nerothos's papers indicated that Roland had a common-law wife - a low-born woman named Martha Tennant - but it also noted repeated rumors of dalliances with others. Given their current location in a tavern of very ill repute, flirtation seemed worth a shot. His extraordinary good looks were another point in the plan's favor; a homely man might be suspicious or timid of her apparent interest, but a man like Roland would probably only consider it his due.

Arranging her hair more precisely around her face, she tugged the neckline of her tunic a little lower, inspecting the result with a critical eye. For good measure, she nudged one shoulder of her robes askew, baring a careless sliver of skin. Azlia's tricks could be obvious, but that didn't mean they didn't work.

Satisfied with her alterations, she sauntered up to the bar. Not next to Roland, but several places down, where the bend in the bartop placed her directly in his line of sight. Setting down her empty glass, she leaned over the water-ringed wood and attempted to flag down another drink.

She was in luck - there were only a handful of other humans in the tavern this early in the evening, and none of them were women.

Her eyes met Roland's on their way to the bartender. Almost too easy. She let her gaze linger for a fraction of a second longer than chance would have permitted, noting the acknowledging smile beginning to play about his mouth, before looking away coyly.

Now, to wait.

She caught the attention of the orc woman behind the bar and called for another beer. She was just drinking off the foam when a rich voice sounded over her shoulder.

"My apologies for interrupting, but there aren't so many of our people in this unfortunate forest that I don't recognize a new face."

She turned, pretending to hesitate as she took him in. After a moment, she smiled. "You've been seeing a lot of new faces here lately, I'd imagine." Her gaze dropped to his chest and rested there for a heartbeat, leaving it to him to decide if she was contemplating his clothes or what was under them. "This is a strange place for a priest, though. Unless Stormwind fashions have changed greatly since I left."

He laughed. "No, you've placed me right. As for where I find myself…my calling is to shepherd the broken and hopeless, and where better to reach them than here. In the numberless paths of Shadow, even the least and most lost may have parts to play."

Her brows rose. "I'm surprised the demons tolerate you. Doesn't seem much in keeping with their philosophy of 'eat the weak'."

He smiled, and Callista thought that the deliberate enigmaticness in it would have been maddening on any face less beautiful. "We have our protectors. Not even the Burning Legion is as single-minded as it seems at first."

Rather presumptuous to be instructing a warlock he'd just met on the nature of demons. But what could you expect from a high-born man who was both preternaturally handsome and convinced - or pretending to be convinced - that he was a conduit for divinity? Arrogance, at least, she could work with. Callista tightened her gaze as she pretended to muse on the implications of his words. After a breath or two she let her thoughtful expression melt back into a smile. "Callista Dunhaven," she said, offering her hand.

He took it, nodding in return. "Roland Lavonte, High Priest of the Veil. Very charmed." His handshake was firm, and he stroked the back of her knuckles lightly with his thumb before releasing her. Whatever the tenets of his faith, Callista observed cynically, marital fidelity for the priesthood seemed to be optional. "One of the Stormwind Dunhavens, I presume?"

She leaned back against the bar, surveying him with amusement as she took a sip of her beer. "You're actually speaking to the former heir-apparent. Lavonte...I know that name, though I can't quite place it."

He chuckled, a low pleasant sound. "Oh dear, I hope I haven't put my foot in it. Yes, I'm not surprised you're not familiar with my family. The Lavonte name has been fading into obscurity since before the Fall, though there's still a title attached. My father is Lord Lavonte, though, like you, I no longer expect to inherit."

"The ladies of the court must be inconsolable," she said.

"Some of them," he said with an impish smirk. "I'm afraid I was something of a cad in my directionless younger years. If you had known of me, I'd have been compelled to apologize for whatever you'd heard." He paused, half-smiling. "Pardon my directness, but now that we've been introduced, I can't help my curiosity. How does a woman of your background - dabbler in the fel arts or not - come to find herself in such a hard setting?" Beneath the lightness of his words, the chiseled charm of his face and the liquid intensity of his gaze, she could sense the point of a genuine probe.

Good. Now they might get somewhere. Callista tsked playfully. "I'm surprised you'd even ask. A lord's son, of all people, should know that the advantage of backgrounds like ours is that we can go anywhere."

"Well said. I know, too, that there are few as skilled as those like us at evading a question."

Callista's pleasant expression never wavered, but it took a great deal of effort to suppress the sardonic curl of a lip. His words were innocuous enough, but his tone managed to hit the exact note of indulgent chiding to make that one of the most patronizing remarks ever addressed to her. Even in her role as displaced ingenue, there was only so much she could endure.

"Oh dear," she said. "You never told me you were part of your order's inquisition."

He blinked at her, and for a moment she worried she'd insulted him. Then he laughed, a startled infectious sound. "My apologies if I gave offense. I've been told before I can come off a bit...intense. Some find it charming, but I take it you're not in their company."

Now it was her turn to laugh. Pompous bastard. "Not at all. That's what I get for trying to be coy, I suppose. The truth is, if you've spent any time talking to poor Daeron over there, you already know my story. Stormwind isn't a very friendly home to warlocks these days." She considered for a moment, tilting her head. "As for why I came here, precisely…" She injected a hint of self-consciousness into her smile, hoping to imply a confidence. "Part sheer perversity, part hope of finding others in a similar situation. Misery does love company."

He nodded sympathetically. "Believe it or not, there are several men and women formerly of Stormwind among our congregation." He paused, managing to look almost abashed. "I realize this is going to come off as terribly disingenuous, but if you were ever interested in making their acquaintance…"

She laughed again. "Oh, I see now. Tell me, is this how all of your conversions usually start?"

He smiled. "If I said no, would you even believe me?"

"Possibly. Or perhaps I'd be tempted to show up to your service just to discover the truth."

He grinned, flashing ivory teeth. "I'd welcome your presence, regardless. There are infinite paths to wisdom, and even the most crooked is no less valid than the straight way."

"Sounds...disorienting."

"Simple faiths are for simple minds." He rummaged in the pocket of his robes for a moment before producing a folded slip of paper. "Here, please have this. If you're curious at all, our next public meeting is evening after tomorrow. At the very least you might make some new acquaintances."

She accepted his note. "Nice pitch, but no promises. I've never found much use for faith - though I can't say it's ever chatted me up in a Shadow Council tavern before."

"But it has chatted you up in other taverns?" His playful words were shaded with just enough jealousy to be flattering.

She widened her eyes in mock innocence and smiled.

His gaze brushed her face, following the line of her neck down across her front, and if the raw appreciation in it was feigned, then he was too practiced a liar to be caught out by her. "Even if you decline the invitation, I do hope I'll at least see you here again." He touched her lightly on the arm, fingers curling just above her elbow. "Goodnight, Miss Dunhaven."

"Goodnight," she said.

Callista exhaled slowly in relief and took a long swig of her now warm beer, watching Roland's orange-clad back recede into the crowd near the door. Despite herself, she was acutely aware of the warmth where his hand had rested. Twisting Nether. Animal magnetism could get one far, but she already found herself questioning if she could have tolerated a whole night in the high priest's presence without ulterior motives. Arrogance was one thing - she could even find it appealing, in the right circumstances - but Roland's particular blend of condescension, vice, and religious airs left a rotten taste in her mouth, no matter how perfect his cheekbones.

She unfolded the slip of paper he'd given her, revealing directions to one of the ruined stone pavilions on the outskirts of Jaedenar. Even now, she couldn't tell if he was truly attracted to her, or if he simply considered her an easy mark. Not that it mattered. Either way accomplished her purpose. The second choice might actually be better in the long run - the surest way to fool someone was to convince him he'd seen exactly your kind before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so this wasn't quite out by the end of the summer like I'd planned, but I promise I tried, lol. Unexpected work travel ftw. As always, thanks for sticking with me! I think part of the reason for the slowness was I needed to get so many new characters introduced, but next time should have more of the 'usual' cast dynamics. I'm pretty excited, because we're getting close to what (hopefully!) will be some of the really fun parts.
> 
> It's kinda funny...I was worried that I took so long writing this that canon WoW developments would make parts of the plot nonsensical, but almost the opposite has happened. A lot of the new Legion lore has been super useful. Though my goal is still to have this thing finished before I need to test my luck with another expansion, ha.


End file.
